7. Graham #2
“I have some clients in the pipeline that I plan to meet with this weekend.” It’s not a lie, but for some reason my heart gallops in my chest. “I’ll have an update for you on Monday.”
“Noted.” He knocks on my desk to grab my attention. “I see great things in our future if you’re able to pull this off.”
“I’ve got this,” I reply.
He strolls toward the door but stops a moment to adjust his suit before walking out.
His feet are visible through the frosted office windows as he stops at Avery’s desk.
A few moments pass before he strides away, and something like a growl rips through the office.
Instead of soothing my curiosity by going out to check on my secretary, I focus on narrowing down a list of potential clients that might be at the wedding.
Hours pass in a blur of meetings and phone calls, and it’s nearly six the next time I check the clock.
It’s dark outside my office door, and I vaguely remember Avery telling me goodbye as I was attending an online cryptocurrency conference.
Light streams from a door down the hallway, and I amble towards Rosay’s office.
I lean on her door jamb, observing her with her black cat eye glasses on her head, wielding a red pen like a knife, slashing along the papers in front of her. There’s a crinkle between her thick brows, and the slight pout she mak es at the page like something is wrong makes my stomach twist.
It’s probably a hunger pang since I skipped lunch.
Fully aware I’m edging into creeper territory, I clear my throat and say, “You’re supposed to be getting ready for dinner.”
“I wondered how long you were going to stare at me before saying something.” She glances up at me and her glasses fall to her slim nose.
With a huff she takes them off and stores them in her desk drawer.
“I could say the same to you. Aren’t you supposed to be at home cooking?
Or are you one of those dude bros who thinks ordering takeout is cooking? ”
I chuckle at her use of ‘dude bros,’ a term I haven’t heard since I roomed with four guys in college.
Despite surviving on takeout and crummy cafeteria food throughout college, my dad raised me to be the type of man who could fend for myself.
While he worked to the bone to provide for me in high school, I learned how to cook for him.
“Guess you’ll have to see once you get there,” I say.
Rosay pushes back from the desk and slinks over to the corner with bare feet. I always comment on her lack of shoes, not because it annoys me or grosses me out that she prefers to be barefoot, but because I like riling her up. Knowing I’ll have all night to do so, I don’t mention it.
“Did you poison the food?” She scans my face as I grab her coat and hold it open for her.
“Not yet, but if you make me wait any longer, I might just think about it.”
She pushes me toward the door. “Send me your address.”
***
The clock ticks loudly as I check on the roast and potatoes for the sixth time. Rosay only lives ten minutes from my house—I Googled because it felt like something a fiancé should know—so the fact that it’s been forty minutes and she’s still not here makes me anxious.
Chill the hell out, Graham.
I sit on the couch and turn on the Cowboys game for background noise, hoping the droning of the halftime chatter will distract me.
A glance at my phone shows no messages from her.
I grit my teeth, unsure if I should call to check in or to make sure she’s okay.
It’s not every day you decide to have dinner with your fake fiancée to go over details of how you’ll trick her family, so it wouldn’t surprise me if she got cold feet.
Keys jingle in the hallway, and I scramble to the peephole in the door. A dark silhouette is the only thing I can see, but I could have my eyes closed and I’d still recognize the curves on that body. Rosay saunters down the hallway at a leisurely pace, and I ready myself for her arrival.
Her gentle knock makes my pulse race. I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans and check my breath one last time before I open the door and find Rosay in a pair of tight dark jeans and a simple white shirt that does nothing but highlight the breasts I’ve been trying to erase from my mind.
This is a bad idea.
Ignoring my instincts, I welcome her in. “Thought you’d changed your mind.”
She snorts, and glass clinks around in the bag she has slung on her shoulder. “Had to stop and pick up a few things before I ran home to change.”
Like a gentleman, I take the bag from her. She follows me to the kitchen island where I carefully withdraw the contents. Four bottles of wine, some type of card game, and a charcuterie from a local food cart, Parkcuterie , sit atop the counter.
“Trying to get me drunk?” I ask.
She nonch alantly shrugs and joins me near the crockpot. “Figured if you’re going to be marrying into the family, you should probably know about the wine they make.”
“Makes sense.”
She stares at the crockpot on the counter with a look of surprise then whips her head back to me. “Did you actually cook?”
I pretend to be offended with a scoff. “Why is that such a surprise?”
Her full pink lips twitch, somewhere between a frown and a smile. “You don’t scream domestic to me. More like the ‘I expect my dinner to be ready at five thirty sharp’ type.”
Now I’m frowning, upset she has this image of me that is so unlike who I truly am. I guess it didn’t help that Bethany preferred to dine out most days rather than allow me to cook for her.
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Ro say.” I lean against the counter, dipping down to meet her gaze. “Isn’t that why we’re having this dinner?”
A light smattering of pink graces her cheeks, and I loathe myself for noticing how it creeps down further. I thankfully manage to look away before she notices.
“Sure.” Within seconds her attention is on something else and she’s opening every drawer in my kitchen as if it’s her house. I watch her for a moment, drinking in the way she feels comfortable, how she looks like she belongs here.
With me.
My chest tightens imagining us cooking together, or her working on her laptop while I cook. Bethany was never this comfortable, never wanted to share the space in the way Rosay seems to as she pushes me to the side in her search.
“Is the re something you’re looking for?” I ask, tamping down the kick drum that is my heart. “I happen to know where everything is, since I, you know, live here.”
At first, I assume she’s ignoring me as she continues to open and close every drawer near the stove, but eventually, I give in and grab the wine opener she’s clearly searching for.
She steals the corkscrew and glares at me. “You’re a douche.”
I chuckle. “You could’ve asked.”
The twisty side of the corkscrew inches toward my face, but I don’t flinch. Her eyes narrow for a fraction of a second before she redirects her attention to opening a bottle of red.
“This should pair nicely with whatever meat you have in there. It smells good.” She says the word ‘good’ through clenched teeth as if it pained her to compliment me.
“It is good.” I grab two glasses from the cupboard and pour a small amount in each, handing hers over before I lift mine for a toast. “To a good fake marriage and new opportunities.”
Just as the glass touches my lips, warmth encases my hand. I glance down and find Rosay’s delicate fingers grasping my wrist. Her soft laugh makes my eyebrows bunch.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, though I know exactly what she’s going to say.
“Let it breathe.” She moves my hand around like a puppeteer, and the wine swirls inside the glass. “Your wine needs to aerate.”
Her tropical scent invades my senses, drawing my gaze to where she watches the wine slosh against the sides. I swallow a weird blip of attraction and clear my throat.
“Don’t want to get kicked out of the house on my first night there.
” I chuckle, hoping to clear the awkward tension in the room.
I’ve spent the last ten years wining and dining some of the richest people in finance, so my knowle dge on fine wine is quite expansive, but she doesn’t need to know that.
“My family isn’t that snobby.” She blinks a few times, seemingly realizing she’s still grasping my wrist, and drops my hand.
I fight the urge to laugh by rolling my lips between my teeth.
I’m glad it’s not only me that seems to be affected, but the fact remains that she is my employee.
Though it’s not technically against any work policies, the optics of upper management dating an employee wouldn’t look good for me when I’m trying to show the board I’m focused and serious about the CEO position becoming permanent.
We might be approaching a boundary; I don’t plan on crossing one.
For anyone.
This deal between us is simply that. A deal. A means to get what we both need.
Her stomach growls, and it breaks the last tendril of anxiety bouncing around us.
“Let’s eat.” I serve up two plates and point her toward the table. “Then we can chat.”