by Lila Monroe
“Trouble, boss?” Andre asks.
I shake my head. “Nothing I can’t handle.”
I take the elevator up to my place and quickly pack a weekend bag. Then I take it—and the food—and jump in a cab back to Becca’s place. Somehow, all streets lead to Waverly, but this time, I check the surroundings from the front stoop, looking for anything—or anyone—suspicious.
Is that guy outside the coffee shop really reading that newspaper, or is he watching the apartment? And is that tourist snapping photos of the cherry blossoms, or do they have the camera trained on Becca’s window?
I head upstairs and knock on her door.
“Just a minute!” Becca’s voice comes. I can hear music playing inside, and a moment later, the door flies open.
“Fitz?!” her voice rises in panic. “What are you doing here?”
I grin. She’s wearing ratty grey sweatpants and a kids’ T-shirt riding up over her stomach, her wet hair pulled in two braids and neon-green goop smeared over her face.
She looks utterly ridiculous.
And weirdly hot.
“I brought food,” I say, holding up the bags. I figure I should lead with the good news. “And also, I’m moving in.”
“Wait, what?!”
Becca follows me inside. She’s got some cooking show playing on the TV and laundry piled on the couch. “Sorry about the mess,” she says, quickly shoving stuff aside. “But seriously, what?”
“Brett’s having me followed.” I quickly explain about my run-in with the redhead. “Which means he’s probably got this place staked out too.”
Becca sits down with a thump. “He sent you a honeypot?”
I chuckle. “A honeytrap,” I correct her. “But yes.”
Becca narrows her eyes. “Exactly how long was it before you figured her out?”
“If you’re asking whether we were naked at the time, the answer is no.” My voice must have been frosty, because Becca sighs.
“I’m sorry. I just can’t believe Brett would stoop this low!”
“I can.” I start unpacking the Thai food and dig around for some chopsticks. “The guy is a lying lowlife. Stands to reason he’d assume we’re lying lowlifes too.”
“But I’m not lying . . . I mean, we’re not . . .” Becca seems to realize there’s no way out of that particular corner. She sinks down beside me with a groan. “So, what do we do now?”
“Eat Pad Thai and explain to me who these bakers are, for a start,” I suggest, handing her the spring rolls.
And figure out how I’m going to spend the night in this apartment without trying to seduce her.
“Mmm, these are really good,” Becca exclaims, licking sauce off the corner of her mouth.
Fuck. She’s sexy. Even covered in that ridiculous green goop.
“Pass me the noodles,” she adds, leaning over me to reach. Her body presses against me, and I have to think non-sexy thoughts.
Margaret Thatcher naked. Roadkill. A Swedish sauna full of old men.
Nope. I’m still hard for her.
I leap up. “I’ll go get a drink,” I say, retreating to the kitchen. Is it possible to dunk my whole head under the cold faucet?
I look back to the living room, where Becca is stuffing her—neon-green—face with takeout. I never found Kermit sexy before, but now . . . ?
It’s going to be a long night.
9
Becca
Fitz is here. Staying the night. In my apartment.
Apparently, the gods of sexual tension are having a wild time at my expense. After two more episodes of The Great British Bake Off—while I make a pig of myself, just to give my hands something to do that isn’t touching him—I set Fitz up on the fold-out couch, then flee to the safety of my bedroom.
911 emergency! I text Poppy and Natalie. Fitz is here. Staying the night!
Way to go! Poppy writes back immediately.
Enjoy!! Natalie agrees.
I sink onto my bed with a groan. My friends mean well, but they don’t realize this temptation is the last thing I need. I spent the day lying through my teeth to everyone, waiting for the moment when I could escape and just forget this whole complicated charade.
Instead, the most complicated part of it is currently bedding down on the other side of my bedroom door, just inches away from me.
Does Fitz sleep naked?
The thought pops into my head, and I blush. This is definitely not the time for a repeat of the other night, no matter how much sexual tension is still ricocheting around my body.
Not that seduction is on his mind. I dashed to wash off my mask as soon as I could, but I’m betting the image of me with goop dripping down my face and my baggy Snoopy pants aren’t exactly lighting the fire of burning passion in his loins.
Hmmm, Fitz’s loins . . .
Nope!
I turn off the lights and dive beneath the covers, pulling them up to my chin as I wait to fall asleep.
And wait.
Any time now would be great . . .
I have an early start for work tomorrow, and I usually have no problem drifting off, but tonight, no matter what I do, my thoughts keep drifting back to the man just outside my door.
What’s his deal?
I had Fitz down as your typical reckless playboy, looking for the next thrill while he squanders the family trust fund, but the more time I spend with him, the more I wonder if I have him wrong. Sure, he’s charming and flirty and annoyingly arrogant, but he’s also . . .
Kind. And thoughtful, too.
A selfish playboy wouldn’t have had my back like that at dinner, defending me to Brett, and then listening to my messy romantic woes all the way home—while also feeding me carbs. He wouldn’t have picked up a roller and helped paint a total stranger’s apartment, or humored Stanley and Lionel by listening to all their old Broadway stories.
He definitely wouldn’t be pretending I didn’t have the best orgasm of my life on the phone to him the other night.
Or suffering the loose springs on that couch, just to keep our cover story intact.
So, who is Arthur Fitzgerald, really?
I toss and turn for another slooooow half hour, before finally slipping out of bed. I pad barefoot across the floor and ease the door open to peek.
Is he still up?
There’s a lamp on by the couch, and Fitz has his feet up, typing something on his laptop. He slams the screen shut when he sees me. “Sorry, am I keeping you up?”
Yes, but I’m the one to blame for what fantasy-Fitz is doing in my mind.
“Nope!” I blurt. “I just, um, needed a glass of water.”
I scurry through to the kitchen and run the faucet. Spoiler alert: Fitz doesn’t sleep in the nude, but he has changed into a pair of comfy-looking sweatpants and a soft college T-shirt.
“You went to Oxford?” I ask, reading the type on his shirt.
“For my sins.” Fitz gives me a rueful smile. “My father went there, and his father, back to the Romans. At least, that’s the way they tell it.”
“You didn’t like it?”
“I certainly liked the pubs,” Fitz replies with a smirk. “And the coeds weren’t bad, either . . . There was an all-women’s college, St. Hilda’s. They gave me honorary membership, they caught me sneaking in so often.” He grins, but I don’t buy it this time.
“You do that a lot,” I say, watching him thoughtfully. “Deflect my questions by giving a glib answer.”
Fitz raises an eyebrow. “Haven’t you heard? I’m the king of glib. They’ll write it on my tombstone.”
“See, there you go again.”
Fitz pauses a long moment, looking at me. Then he shrugs, but this time, it’s not the same dismissive gesture as before.
“I did like Oxford,” he admits. “But it was a lot to live up to. There’s a Fitzgerald library there, and my professors made it clear they expected me to carry on the family name.”
“So, you decided to do the exact opposite.”
Fitz’s eyes meet mine. “I suppose it sounds childish, when you put it like that.”
“Not necessarily.” I wander closer, still clutching my glass of water. “You chose to go your own way. I can understand that. I just wonder . . .” I search for a tactful way to say it. “Is this really how you’re going to spend your life? Don’t you want to do something other than just party in hot clubs with supermodels?”
“Maybe I’ll tell you, one day.” Fitz gives a mysterious smile and tucks his laptop away. “Anyway, I won’t keep you. You have work tomorrow.”
“Right.” I linger there in the doorway for a moment. I don’t know why, but I wish I could stay and talk longer. Fitz looks different, like his guard is finally down. Like maybe we could get to know each other for real, if I gave him half a chance . . .
“Unless you’d like to join me on this couch?” Fitz adds, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. “It offers something of an acrobatic challenge, but I spent a weekend in Monte Carlo with a Serbian gymnast named Natasha, and boy, did she teach me some moves.”
And there it is.
“No thanks,” I say dryly, heading back to my room—alone. “Goodnight!”
I manage to snatch a few hours of sleep before my alarm wakes me first thing Monday morning. I tiptoe around my room getting ready, hoping to sneak out without waking Fitz—and avoid any more awkwardness-slash-sexual tension. But when I slip out of my room, I find him in the kitchen, frying some bacon as he merrily hums along to the radio.
Shirtless.
Good morning to me!
“Uh, hi,” I mumble, trying to avert my eyes from his tanned, taut chest. Oh, who am I kidding? Mama deserves an ogle, especially if I’m going to be stuck with him under the same roof for lord knows how long.
“Morning, sweet cheeks,” Fitz answers, unconcerned by the fact my tongue is probably hanging out right now. “Coffee?”
I blink. “Yes please.”
“I figured you’d have to run, so I made your food to go.” Fitz expertly slides the bacon onto a slice of toast, adds a slice of leftover party brie, and sandwiches them together. He hands me the foil-wrapped sandwich with a grin.
A sexy, morning-after, two-day stubble grin that melts my heart even more than the prospect of breakfast does. “Enjoy your day.”
“I . . . thanks . . .”
I’m too stunned to do anything but take the package, grab my keys, and walk blindly out to the hall. I descend the stairs in a hurry—before I can turn around, race back up, and jump his sexy, breakfast-making bones.
“Becca!”
I’m just heading down the street when I hear Fitz’s voice behind me. I turn. He’s jogging down the front steps, holding my Thermos in his hand. “You forgot your coffee, babe,” he says, flashing me another panty-melting smile. I see the woman ahead on the sidewalk stop dead and gape at the sight of him, his bare chest glistening in the morning sun.
Then, before I can even manage a thank you, he leans in and kisses me. A slow, sexy, morning-after kiss that pretty much makes me melt into a puddle on the ground.
Fitz pulls back. “There,” he murmurs quietly to me. “If anyone’s watching the apartment, they’ll have enjoyed the show.”
The show.
Right.
That.
“Good thinking.” I manage to pull myself together. “OK. I have to go.”
“Aren’t you forgetting something?”
I blink. He holds up the Thermos.
“Right! Thanks! See you!” I grab it and race away. Then I text Poppy and Natalie again.
Emergency drinks. After work. HELP.
I race through paperwork at the office in a blur until five p.m., and then take the subway across town to the little French wine bar that’s become our usual after-work haunt. Natalie used to wait tables here before she got her gig at the newspaper, so the owner doesn’t even mind us ordering the cheapest bottle on the menu and making it last all night.
“So, did you?” Natalie demands immediately when I join her in the back booth.
“Did I what?”
“Jump his bones and spend the night having torrid, filthy sex.” She beams and shoves the bread basket over at me.
Is my desperate need to stress-eat written all over my face?
“No, I most definitely did not.” I butter a roll and shove it in my mouth. “Mnugh . . . uhhhm . . . gnuah . . .”
“Swallow.” Natalie grins.
“That’s what she said,” Poppy quips, arriving. She throws her bag down, and I barely duck out of the way in time.
“Whoa, what have you got in there?” I yelp. “It weighs a ton!”
“Guess which client of mine is trying to woo an Egyptologist?” Poppy rolls her eyes. “I’m stuck reading old history textbooks, trying to make mummification romantic.”
“Hey, as long as he pays the bills,” Natalie reminds her, giving a supportive pat—and pouring her a glass of wine.
“That black Amex is the only reason I haven’t told him where he can go swipe it,” Poppy mutters. She takes a gulp and a deep breath, then looks at me. “OK, sexy husband emergency, go.”
“Don’t call him that!” I protest. “It still sounds weird.”
“So, focus less on the husband part and more on the sexy,” Poppy replies with a grin. “What have I missed? Catch me up.”
“Well . . .” I bite my lip and then confess the last forty-eight hours of (sexy, frustrating) madness: bathtub and all.
“Becca!” they gasp.
“I know!” I cringe and hide my face behind my hands. “I don’t know what came over me!”
“Well, someone came, that’s for sure,” Natalie says admiringly. “Way to go.”
“I tried having phone sex with my college boyfriend once,” Poppy adds, looking nostalgic. “He was this hot football player, but dumb as a post. I said I was kissing my way down his torso, and he stopped to ask me what the word meant.”
I laugh, then groan, then laugh again. “What am I supposed to do? It was one thing when he was safely all the way across the city. But now he’s in my apartment, giving me that smile, with that mouth . . .”
“You know where I stand.” Natalie sips her wine. “Get while the getting is good, I say.”
“She’s right,” Poppy agrees. “You’re looking a gift hunk in the mouth. Think about it this way,” she adds. “Your relationship already has an expiration date stamped all over it. Why not make the most of it and do something crazy for a change?”
“For a change?” I snort. “Umm, are you forgetting I married a complete stranger just last week?!”
She laughs. “OK, you’ve got me on that. But seriously, Fitz seems like perfect fling material.”
“You already know you have great chemistry.” Natalie smirks. “I mean, imagine what he could do if he was actually in the same room!”
I shake my head, laughing, but I have to admit, it’s a tempting idea. At first, the fact we were in this contracted fake relationship seemed like the reason NOT to get involved.
But now . . . ?
We both know it’s not going anywhere. So why not just enjoy the ride?
I shake my head, pushing those—delicious, sexy—thoughts aside. “Even if I wanted to, there’s no way that man is interested. Not after he saw me with my SuperPore mask and old sweatpants.”
Poppy grins. “See, you say that, but I bet the only thing he noticed was whether you were wearing a bra or not.”
I think back . . . Was I?
“Whoops.”
“There you go,” Natalie says, with a mischievous look. “If you don’t want to make the first move, just wander around the apartment in sexy lingerie until he breaks.”
“Does my Knicks shirt count?” I ask, mentally scanning through my sleepwear and coming up with zero sexiness.
“Depends what you’re wearing underneath!”
After another glass of wine, I head home—considering a detour to Nordstrom Rack’s lingerie department on my wa
y.
Nope! I stop myself before I can blow money I don’t have on sexy sleepwear I definitely don’t need. I need to stop thinking about Fitz like this. Nothing but trouble lies down that particular path.
Trouble, and multiple orgasms . . . ?
Natalie is right. If Fitz can get me hot and bothered just at the sound of his voice, what could he do with an in-person performance, live and up close, and—
“Becca!”
I jump out of my skin, whirling around. Fitz is sauntering from the other direction. “Hey!” I blurt, hoping he can’t read my mind—and trying to ignore how good he looks. He’s wearing a white button-down shirt that brings out his tan, and the sparkling blue in his eyes. Hello, lover.
“What are your plans?” he asks, as I hunt for my keys.
“It’s Monday night.”
“And?”
I laugh. “And, that means scrounging up leftovers because I forgot to go to the store, reviewing case files, and then falling asleep in front of a Friends re-run.”
“Sounds like a party,” Fitz says. He links his arm through mine and steers me around in the opposite direction. “Or, we could have some fun.”
“Why do I get the feeling that ‘fun’ with you involves two near-death experiences and a misdemeanor charge?” I joke, even as the touch of his body makes me feel all kinds of irresponsible feelings.
“Come on.” Fitz smiles at me, his eyes playful. “Don’t you want to live a little? I promise, you’ll have the time of your life.”
I waver.
The smart choice would be heading straight upstairs for dinner and an early night in bed. Alone.
But then I look at Fitz again, illegally handsome and offering me a good time. I’d have to be crazy to pass this up, right? All my careful rules about this fake relationship didn’t bet on chemistry like this. And if you think about it, we’re already married. What’s the worst that could happen?
“OK,” I agree. “I’m in.”
10
Becca
I have no idea what to expect when Fitz pulls me into a cab. From the stories he’s been telling, I’m betting on something wild. Dinner at a five-star restaurant, followed by a night backstage with U2 and midnight drinks at the hottest VIP club in town.
