All ONES: The Complete Collection

by Aleatha Romig

  "Other flowers?"

  The hand around my waist lowers until it's firmly on my ass. While my mind screams inappropriate, my body craves more. I yearn to turn toward the window, wishing that it is opaque so that this can go further. I inhale deeply, my breasts now rubbing against his chest. "Mr.—"

  He touches my lips. "Duncan."

  "What is men's obsession with...other flowers?"

  "Now, how long have we been together? That seems like a conversation for further into our relationship."

  I shake my head and try to articulate. "Th-this—"

  "Weekend. Your rules," Duncan interrupts. "I'm trying to understand."

  "This is strictly pretend," I say.

  "So am I to understand that this weekend is not about picking flowers?" He squeezes my ass again.

  Heat floods my cheeks. "Yes. No. A weekend. A pretend weekend. That's all. We do this and I don't say anything to Mr. Buchanan, and if whoever was with you files a report, I do my best to talk her out of it." Before he has a chance to respond, I add, "I'll make plane reservations. What time can you leave on Thursday?"

  "Kimbra." My name rolls like a distant rumble of thunder off his tongue. "Right now I'd like to kiss my weekend girlfriend." His brow arches. "You know, to seal the deal."

  "What?"

  Duncan brushes my cheek with his knuckle. "I've seen you blush before, but it's even cuter close up."

  I nervously look toward the window. I gasp as I realize it's no longer clear, but frosted. "How? When?"

  He tips his head toward the desk. "A button, right after your interesting proposal."

  How had I not noticed? Maybe because Duncan Willis has had my undivided attention.

  "I-I..."

  "Is my request against your rules?"

  "A kiss?" I ask, uncertainty gushing from each syllable. I can't think straight. My rules. What are my rules?

  "You see," he goes on, "the way I look at it is that flowers come in all colors. Right now, before me I see beautiful red lips, like a rose. I've watched those lips praise employees and I've seen them fire others. What I've never done is kiss them."

  "Mr. Wi—"

  "Duncan. That's my name. You'll need to work on that for this weekend. Don't you think?"

  I wasn't sure what I was thinking. The room was warm. His breath was warm. My entire body was warm.

  I nod.

  Duncan's smile grows. "Is that nod about my name or is it permission for me to pick the beautiful rose before me? For us to seal our deal?"

  My heart races as I swallow and nod again with my heart hammering so hard that I'm sure he can feel it. "Duncan. Got it. Yes, a kiss would be—"

  His mouth covers mine, stopping my response. I expect a quick brush of his lips, a peck or chaste show of pretend affection.

  Instead, he lingers. His warm, sexy full lips swallow my answer and send electricity throughout my body. Hot chills—yes, HOT CHILLS—run straight through me. His kiss consumes. In merely seconds, I melt against him. No longer rigid, my body is putty in his strong hands as he holds me to him. A moan I don't recognize fills my ears.

  Though I'm pliable, part of him—a very large part of him—isn't. And that part is currently pushing against my stomach.

  I should stop this.

  I should pull away.

  My brain is lecturing, but my body isn't listening.

  When we finally separate, I stare at his mouth before slowly moving my gaze to his eyes. "Flight?" I ask, remembering my earlier question.

  "Noon. We'll leave from here. Bring your luggage to my office Thursday morning and I'll have Jorge take care of it. If a hotel is out of the question, then I'll arrange the flight. We'll take a company plane."

  I shake my head.

  "Kimbra," he says, his tone like the perfect grade of sandpaper—just the right amount of rough. "Don't make me play the boyfriend card."

  Boyfriend!

  "Pretend," I remind him. "And we don't need to be there until later."

  He brushes his lips over mine again and grins. "Five months. A winter fling that I can't seem to get enough of."

  I try to comprehend. "What?"

  "It's how long we've been dating. It started after the company holiday party when I saw you in that stunning gold dress, the one with the slit that went all the way up your thigh. I couldn't stop thinking about how high it went, wondering what you were wearing underneath. If your pink flower was covered. If all I had to do was reach..."

  His fingers graze my hip and slowly bunch my skirt higher and higher.

  I can't speak.

  Holy shit! Duncan Willis is lifting my skirt.

  I should argue or scream, but all I can think about is that he noticed me. I did wear a gold dress to the company party. I never thought he noticed me.

  His fingers stop moving, the hem of my skirt still mid-thigh. His eyes lower to my breasts. "And your tits, both in that dress and now," he adds, "...are breathtaking. But that night, you were with that guy from distribution, Timothy."

  "W-we dated, but not for long." Not after I caught him with that slut from accounting.

  "Don't tell me any more," Duncan says. "If you do, if he did something to upset you, you or others in HR may need to justify a wrongful termination."

  "Pretend," I say again, less convincingly.

  Duncan's fingers brush the skin of my thigh, just below the hem of my now-raised skirt. "You keep telling yourself that, but I'd bet if I lifted this skirt higher, you'd be wet. I bet in no time at all I could make you whimper, not like you did in the bathroom when you were listening, but this time loud enough that Jorge could hear you."

  Inappropriate. The word is losing its meaning.

  The combination of his voice and touch sends bolts of lightning straight to my core that is just as he described it—wet. I sway toward him before coming to my senses and take a step back. "Pretend, Mr. Willis. One weekend."

  Duncan smiles. "Miss Jones, you're lucky that I'm not a gambling man. If I were, I'd need to verify that I'm right..." He leans down until our noses touch. "...about you being wet. And for the record, since we've been dating for five months, you should know that I'm rarely wrong."

  Chapter Seven

  Kimbra

  Tuesday and Wednesday pass without my seeing Duncan. I haven't looked for him, but nevertheless, I haven't seen him. Reasonable deduction would assume that means he hasn't looked for me either. I have to wonder if he still wants to be my plus-one.

  Doubt is a sneaky little thing. It claws inside the smallest of places, setting up house until it's comfortable enough to make its move and slither seamlessly into a usually confident person's subconscious.

  On Wednesday night, as soon as I get home, I go straight to Shana's room. The entire ride home I debated calling Mr. Willis and canceling, calling my mom and confessing, and spending the entire weekend reminiscing with Indiana's shoe king. Who knows, maybe he can get me a discount on some kick-ass heels?

  As I turn the corner to enter her room, my feet stop and heart clenches. This is really happening. Shana's going to move to London. The bare room brings tears that sting the back of my eyes. Her pictures are off the walls and other than boxes, there's nothing on her dressers or nightstand.

  "I'm going to miss you," I finally say from her doorway.

  She gasps as she turns. "I didn't hear you come in. You nearly scared me to death."

  "No way!" I paste a pretend smile on my face. "No dying. You've got some dreams to catch."

  "I'm going to miss you too. But you won't even notice. You'll be too busy with Mr. Sexy to even realize I'm gone."

  I shake my head as I flop onto Shana's bed. "That's not true. After this weekend, I'm going to be scarred for life. I'm a terrible liar. This whole deal is going to be a disaster. It's all going to blow up in my face, and then I'll be the butt of all my brother's jokes for the rest of our lives." I roll over on my stomach, prop my chin on my hand, and watch as Shana folds the last of her clothes into a suitcase. "One
day, I'll be eighty and Kevin will be eighty-two and he'll say, 'Remember that time you blackmailed your boss to go to Scarlett's wedding?' Oh, and we'll be surrounded by Kevin's kids and grandkids and I'll still be single."

  "Stop it. You won't be single, but if you are, it's because it's your choice and you have taken over the world."

  I laugh. "That's me. I'm aiming for world domination. No, seriously, it's not the being-married thing. It's that whenever I'm home, I feel like even if I did take over the world, my family would be disappointed." I change my voice to mimic my mom's. "That's sweet, dear, that you're the ruler of the world. Did you know Darrin McKinney has opened a second shoe store? I just know you two would be perfect together."

  Shana sits beside me and drops a kiss to the top of my hair. "Stop. No one will be disappointed this weekend when you walk in their house on the arm of the sexy Duncan Willis."

  I sigh. "Sexy, but pretend."

  "He's not pretend. He's real. I've seen him and you said he kissed you. Pretend boyfriends don't kiss." She grimaces. "I know that from rumors. I myself have no pretend boyfriends, much less real ones at the moment."

  "He did kiss me, but he shouldn't have."

  "Why?"

  I shake my head. "Because we were at work."

  Her eyebrows dance as she stands and reaches for more clothes. "You won't be. You'll be on a company plane and in your parents' house."

  I roll back over onto my back and cover my stomach with a pillow. "I think I'm going to be ill. I could call my mom and tell her I'm sick. Food poisoning."

  "You'll do no such thing," Shana proclaims. "Besides, you already told her about Duuuuncan." She elongates his name.

  "I did. I said I couldn't believe she didn't remember that Timothy and I had broken up. I also told her that I'd mentioned Duncan multiple times and because she's worried about my dad, she must have forgotten."

  Shana laughs. "And she fell for it?"

  "Yep. Every time. It's something Kevin and I used to do. We'd not tell her something, and then after the fact we'd claim we had." I giggle. "My poor mom. She probably thinks she's losing it."

  "It's okay. She's happy. Do you want to take that happiness away after making her think she's crazy?"

  "She's happy now. What will happen when she figures out that it's all a lie? I mean, I haven't seen him since our...deal."

  "Don't overthink it. He's a little busy owning the company. But this weekend he'll be all yours. Have fun. It's one weekend and it sounds like he's actually a pretty good guy."

  I sit up. "What part sounds like a good guy? Not talking to me since he kissed me or the blow job in the bathroom from an office slut?"

  "Neither," she says. "It's the part where he agreed to be your plus-one."

  "I wish you were going to be here when I get home. Or better yet, I wish you were my plus-one."

  "Oh, you'd better call me as soon as you get back to New York. I want all the gory details. Like..." She sits down beside me and her voice lowers. "...if he's as big as the rumors say and if he knows how to use it."

  My cheeks warm. "I'm not going to..."

  "You're not going to what...and why the hell not?"

  "Why am I not going to find out how big he is or if he knows how to use the massive erection that I felt against my stomach?"

  Shana bounces on the bed. "You didn't tell me you felt it. Was it...?"

  I shrug innocently. "I mean, it's hard to say...but it seemed..."

  "Hard?" She laughs. "I bet the rumors are true. Now tell me why in the world you wouldn't find out?"

  "Because I don't just sleep with someone on the first date."

  "Well, Miss Prim and Proper, I'll let you know that you will..." Before I can respond, she clarifies, "...sleep with him. Four nights: Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. Right? If you never sleep, you'll be pretty damn exhausted."

  "Fuck!" The word comes out as a sigh and I fall back again. "Yes, in my childhood canopy bed."

  "And you have dated. The other night you had drinks at Gaston's?"

  "He had a drink. I had water."

  "Which you drank?"

  I take a deep breath and lift my head so our eyes meet.

  "So," Shana states as if it were fact, "this isn't your first date. You've known him for nearly three years. You even said you've had fantasies about him. Now you're going to have him all to yourself...sleeping in the same room, the same bed, for four nights." She tilts her head to the side. "When is the last time you had sex? Great, mind-blowing sex?"

  "Timothy was the last, but I don't know if it qualifies as mind-blowing."

  "If you don't know, it most certainly doesn't. And you broke up on New Year's. Honey, this is like being on a five-month-long fast, waking up to a long weekend locked in a bakery, and you have the most delicious, giant, cream-filled cannoli right in front of you."

  I giggle and scrunch my nose as I sit back up. "Oh, stop. Now I'm imagining a cannoli."

  "A giant one." She uses her hands and extends a finger from each. With her fingers only a few inches apart, she says, "Not a tiny one." Her fingers move farther and farther apart. "This is a huge, long, thick cannoli. And it was baked a day ago, so it's hard. Really hard."

  I slap her leg. "Seriously, stop."

  "Don't forget the cream."

  "Shana!"

  "Fine. Just be sure to tell me when you get home if you continued the fast or if you decided that you deserved the entire thing." Her eyes widen. "I mean, according to those rumors, you won't be sorry."

  My phone chimes from my purse that I'd dropped on the living room floor on my way toward Shana's room. I hop off her bed and head that direction. As I go to answer it, Shana resumes her packing.

  MR. WILLIS is on the screen.

  My heart races as I answer, scared to death to talk to him, but equally afraid he's changed his mind. I wonder if the blow-up guy is a possibility. How long would it take to arrive if I ordered it tonight?

  "Hello?" I answer.

  "Kimbra."

  "Mr.—Duncan."

  His deep laugh comes through the phone and makes me smile.

  "Just Duncan is fine," he says. "I meant to ask you how formal the wedding will be, but I've been out of the office the last two days. I was summoned unexpectedly to visit a few of our distribution centers and haven't been able to see you."

  My smile grows with each word. Maybe it's his husky, masculine voice. Or maybe it's because he isn't cancelling and hasn't been purposely avoiding me.

  "Formal?" I ask.

  "I seem to recall something about being in it?"

  I giggle as my head moves from side to side. "I convinced my mom that you should be with me."

  "I like the sound of that."

  My heart flutters at his response.

  Pretend. I remind myself. "A suit is fine."

  "And you?" he asks, his words slowing with a hint of provocative undertone. "What will you be wearing?"

  I look down at the wood floor, wondering where the heat is coming from. There's no vent or heater, yet the temperature is definitely rising. It's climbing, radiating from my toes all the way to the top of my head.

  "A dress," I say.

  "What is the color of your dress?" His voice is again like sandpaper, gritty and raw.

  "Blue."

  "Just like the color of your eyes."

  My eyes? He knows the color of my eyes. Then again, I know his are green. I know they're darker when he's at a meeting and in work mode. When he's smiling that sexy, panty-melting smirk, they are lighter with a shimmer of gold.

  "I'll bring a few of my blue ties so we can match," he continues. "May I ask what you'll be wearing under the blue dress, or is that against your rules?"

  "Pretend."

  "Kimbra, I need the ground rules."

  "M-my rules are up for discussion."

  "I like the sound of that too. Tomorrow, our weekend begins."

  With my heart thundering and core now twisting to a painful pinch, I reply, "To
morrow."

  As I disconnect the call, I look up. Shana is watching me from the hallway with a silly smile.

  "What?" I ask.

  "You're going to be just fine. Forget the fast and enjoy that cannoli. But here's my advice. Don't eat it all in one sitting—savor it."

  I shake my head as my cheeks warm from the sting of a full-out blush. "I would suspect that men like to think of their junk as something other than an Italian pastry."

  "From what I saw at Gaston's, there is no room for the word junk when describing Duncan Willis."

  "Still..."

  "I happen to like Italian," Shana says. "And they say London is a mecca for all nationalities. Maybe I'll find myself a nice long, thick cannoli." She laughs as she turns and heads back to her room.

  Chapter Eight

  Kimbra

  The last three days have been hell—or what I imagine that to be.

  I've hardly slept or closed my eyes. Every time I do, I see him, think of him, think of me, and think of us. The imaginings have changed, becoming more detailed. Since my conversation with Shana, they now include giant Italian pastries and usually end with us covered in sweet cream and chocolate glaze.

  And then I remember the most important part. There is no us.

  It's pretend.

  Each daydream or night session that may or may not include self-gratification leaves me woefully unsatisfied with an undeniable desire to take the subway to Little Italy and visit the quaint bakery on Mulberry Street.

  While cannoli in the city are real, I remind myself that the deal for a plus-one with Duncan is not. That train of thought works well until Duncan—I've been practicing using his first name—does something sweet as he did with his call last night. It wasn't a lot nor did it last long. However, it showed that he was thinking about the weekend. As I try to complete my tasks at work, I can't decide if that's a good or bad thing.

  I also can't believe that the one and only time I'll have Duncan Willis to myself will be in my hometown, in my parents' house, surrounded by all my family. Why couldn't Scarlett have decided to have a destination wedding? A hotel room with a beach outside the glass doors would be much better than my childhood bedroom with my mom and dad, brother, and grandmother down the hall.