by Leigh, Ember
Still, my brothers are going to be in Bayshore too. My mom and dad will be expecting the platinum-encased report of my life out west. Dom and Grayson, in particular, are going to be waiting to hear of any perceived stumble so that they can gloat about how much more successful they are.
Well, I don’t make as much money as them. Nowhere near it. And the only trump card in my euchre hand right now is the fact that I’ll be the only one with a girlfriend. Which was true up until very recently.
I just want to make it true again, for the length of my time in Bayshore.
“I mean, I’d like to go home, sure—”
“I’ll buy your ticket.”
She narrows her eyes with a look that says, come on. “You’re not buying my ticket.”
“Why not? I’ve got the money.”
“But you—” She sputters a little. “We don’t even—”
I lean forward, and my fingers brush her wrist. She clamps her mouth shut, and her gaze falls to her hand.
“We’re Bayshore buddies.” I squeeze her wrist gently, and she bites her bottom lip. “We’re from the same place. That means something. We’ve got a bond that nobody else has because of it.”
I’m that level of drunk where I will spew any bullshit necessary to get what I need. And I can tell this homely little lass will eat it up. She’s got eyes the color of a summer sky bordered with periwinkle, and there’s something sharp and hot in her gaze that makes my forearms prickle. I can’t tell if she’s naïve or just one of those conscious virgins.
“A bond, huh?” Her voice is husky in her disbelief, and something in her laugh makes my memory spark. Kinsley. That’s her name. I remember it because Tamara always made fun of her for it. She called it manly. Tamara, my ex-barely. Tamara, Kinsley’s boss.
Tamara had a problem with Kinsley from day one, and I only half listened to her complaints. I have enough of my own work drama that I don’t usually have the energy to get enmeshed in someone else’s. But that’s the other perfect dimension to this arrangement.
Tamara will lose her shit if I take Kinsley back to Bayshore with me.
And if there’s one juicy revenge I have an appetite for, it’s that.
“Kinsley. When’s the last time you went back?” I ask, scooting my chair closer.
She’s nibbling on her bottom lip again. “It’s been a few years…”
“Too long. Way too long. Let me treat you. Come on. I’m going anyway, and I could use the company on the plane.”
She’s tugging at the damp bits of the napkin beneath her glass. “When would you leave?”
“In a few days. I haven’t even looked at flights yet.”
“And for how long?”
“Probably two weeks.”
She shakes her head. “I can’t take a two-week vacation like that. That requires planning. I—”
“Do you have any pets?”
She frowns. “No.”
“Any plants? Succulents? Out-of-control vines?”
A smile ghosts her lips. “No, none of that.”
“Then you’ll be fine. Our company is permissive with personal days. If you can use a few of those and rack up the vacation days on the backend, you’re golden.”
She sighs, drumming her fingers against the bar like she’s really thinking about it. “It would be nice to see my parents again.”
“Let me make it happen for you.”
She rubs at her face, lets out a little squeal into her palms, and then shouts, “Okay! This is crazy, but I’ll do it.”
I squeeze her shoulder, but this time, I notice the feminine curves beneath her silky shirt. The narrow width of her shoulder blade, which begs for a slouchy shirt or the slipping strap of lingerie. Heat prickles through me, but I know this is the alcohol speaking. Kinsley and I, we don’t run in the same circles. It’s the type of truth that simmers on the backburner, always burbling and true.
Which makes my next proposition even more outrageous, but all the more doable.
“It’s important to get home once in a while.” I send her my best winning smile. Even more important than getting home is proving to my family that I live up to their absurd standards of achievement. Especially my overbearing father, who has made my life a particular kind of hell since the day I turned twelve and officially joined the “compete-o-sphere.”
That hardened battle ring where my two older brothers and I spar with frequency, urged on by the ringleader: Dad.
“I just wonder if you could do me one small favor.” I try to keep my voice light. Casual, even. Like I’m not about to ask the most absurd thing ever. “I need you to pose as my girlfriend while we’re home.”
She blinks a few times, and her hesitant blue eyes find mine for a split second. Serious question marks brew there, a witch’s cauldron of confusion. “What?”
“I know it sounds crazy,” I insist, and that’s when I notice my slur. Shit. Not helping my case. “It would really help me out. My family…they…”
“Why wouldn’t you take your girlfriend?”
I stare at her dumbly for a moment, getting lost in the delicate planes of her face. Freckles splash across her cheeks, and she’s got a sun kissed quality that makes her look younger than she probably is. I know we went to school together, so it’s impossible that she’s the eighteen years old that she honestly looks. I’m twenty-seven, so it’s impossible for her to be that young.
“Tamara?” she prompts, when I’ve remained silent too long.
“Oh,” I blurt. “Right. Well, she’s not my girlfriend. That’s why I’m not taking her.” My chest tightens slightly, but not because I miss her. Tamara and I had the Urban Dictionary definition of a toxic relationship. Laden with foul language and street terms to describe how poorly we fit together. Because sometimes, Webster’s just doesn’t quite capture it.
“But haven’t you guys been together forever?” Kinsley asks.
“We broke up a while ago,” I tell her. And if you count the moment I emotionally disengaged from her, it was even longer. I knew from the beginning it was a bad choice, but that’s part of what makes me an idiot. I was hanging on for something she’d promised to deliver. So who’s fault is it when she didn’t come through?
Hint: mine.
Kinsley softens. She turns the empty tumbler of RumChata back and forth in her hands. Every cell in my body is tight with anticipation. Just say yes. If she goes along with this, I will give her so much more than a plane ticket to see her family. I will construct a shrine in her likeness and kiss its feet on the daily. Because she’s helping me complete the trifecta.
Get back at Tamara, prove to my family I’m better than I actually am, and last but not least, piss off my dad.
Because Kinsley isn’t just any ol’ Bayshore buddy. Oh no. She’s Kinsley Cabana. The daughter of my mom’s ex-best friend and dad’s most hated enemy in the world.
Sure, I want to look good compared to my brothers. But what’s a competition without ruffling some feathers?
Bringing Kinsley home isn’t just going to ruffle them. It’s going to burn them to a crisp.
The rum made me a genius, and I would kick myself tomorrow if I didn’t at least try when presented with this unexpectedly perfect opportunity.
“You’re drunk,” she accuses, but I can see the alcohol glow in her own eyes.
“So are you.”
“No, I’m tipsy,” she says, right as she wobbles off the stool. She catches herself on the lip of the bar and giggles.
“Come with me,” I urge, reaching for her wrist again.
And maybe that’s what does it. The heat of her tan skin under my hand causes my fingers to close around that delicate wrist, and my thumb strokes a lazy pattern over her pulse. I catch a barely audible gasp.
“Right now?” she asks, voice barely above a whisper.
Her naivete makes me smile. God, she’s cute, for how oblivious she is. “To Bayshore,” I clarify.
“Oh, right.” She straightens, reaching fo
r her purse. “Give me your number, and I’ll sleep on it.”
I’m putting my number into her phone before she can say otherwise. When the check comes, I pay for everything, even her rounds of RumChata from earlier.
“We’ll have fun.” I get one last glimpse of those pretty eyes before I leave the bar.
Inviting Kinsley to accompany me back home wasn’t on my agenda. But even though she hasn’t made up her mind, I can already see the shifting shadows of the coming days with her at my side.
There’s something in that strawberry blonde braid that promises adventure.
I just wonder if I’m prepared for it.
Chapter 3
KINSLEY
I barely sleep that night. How could I? Connor touched my wrist three separate times in the most overt display of chaste flirtation since the dawn of Victorian romance novels.
And yeah, I masturbate. Because how could I not?
How can I even with this man?
It’s not difficult to push myself over the edge, writhing on the bed with my fingers between my legs, imagining how much further things could have gone. In an alternate universe, surely, because despite the fact that he wants me to pose as his girlfriend, I’m not dumb enough to think that it means we’ll actually do things.
Even though I would give several fingers from my non-dominant hand for a chance to have Connor rub himself against me. Hell, I would settle for seeing the outline of his cock, not even fully hard, through some boxer briefs. And in my wildest fantasies, I see him sliding two fingers over the damp crease of pussy, pushing aside my underwear…before slipping them ever-so-slowly inside…
I don’t even need to imagine actual sex with the man for me to orgasm. That’s how bad I’ve got it for him.
Connor is my dream man, but only from afar. I know nothing about him, so I’m not silly enough to think we’d be a perfect match. But from the outside? He’s a broad wall of masculinity, easygoing grins tempered with studious looks that make him run his thumb along his square jaw. I’ve caught him in meetings before, and he trains those blue eyes on the speaker with so much intensity, I’m surprised they don’t burst into flames.
And after our brief encounter at the bar, I can taste his intensity like a fine wine. It’s hard not to get drunk on it. Hell, I wanted to say yes from the get-go. Embarrassment kept me from signing on the dotted line. Because how silly is that? Am I that starved for affection that I’ll jump at the first chance to play pretend girlfriend with my high school heartthrob?
The answer isn’t just yes. It’s hell yes.
My ex—whose name I no longer pronounce in an effort to banish him from my heart space like a very misbehaved dragon—left me wrecked. He didn’t only lower my self-esteem, he completely deflated it. That’s not why I have ugly purses, mind you. No, I carry these outdated monstrosities because I want to.
One sleepless night later, I am convinced of what I must do. I’m already emailing Tamara my sudden and desperate request for personal days, followed by the formal application for vacation days through the HR system. I remind my boss of my redundancy, which I already know she’ll bring up. Honestly, I welcome the break from that bitch.
Tamara is a fearsome woman, though I’m not sure which is scarier—her too-perfectly manicured claws, or the way she brandishes her emotional reactions like weapons in the office.
I want her job, because I could do it better. More fairly. I graduated with a business administration degree from UCLA three years ago, and I thought I’d be further up the ranks in the Human Resources world by now.
But Tamara has kept me under her thumb, flooding me with bitch work and unsavory training modules which make me think she hates me.
Tamara is everything I am not. She is the living embodiment of an HR poster imploring employees to report workplace abuse: wide, toothy grin framed by perfectly mauve lipstick. Mahogany hair never out of place, not even a strand. She’s tall and sexy yet somehow modest. She seems like she has it all together. And for a while she even had Connor, meaning she also had it all.
So how do I report workplace abuse if the person I report it to is the one perpetrating the abuse?
I could start a job hunt, but the thought depresses me. Isn’t this what I was gunning for? I fought to be on the West Coast, and now I don’t know what I’m doing wrong. I just know that something isn’t right. Tamara plays a part as much as my lack of promotion and sad, nonexistent social life does. Why go out when I’d rather Facetime my college buddies while we share boxed wine in different cities? We have episodes of Friends to catch up on, which is a tradition we started ironically once we parted ways after UCLA.
Dating is out of the question, too. I already know that I’m too frumpy to live, and all the dating apps I’ve tried end up with an avalanche of underwhelming dick pics. Besides, my ex did me in. The first man I dated out of college was borderline emotionally abusive—though I guess being borderline abusive just makes someone actually abusive. He thought I was beautiful one day and a Cinderella-style wretch the next. He never failed to tell me, either—to build me up so he could tear me back down. I withstood it for a year. And now, a year later, I feel like I’m finally crawling out of the cave he left me in.
So maybe this little jaunt to Bayshore is what I need. Connor couldn’t have known how right he was. I’m hopeful the visit back home to Mom and Dad will jostle me out of this funk. Maybe the lake air will give me clarity that the hustle and bustle has been drowning out.
I text Connor at nine a.m., once I finally accept I won’t be sleeping anymore, no matter how hard I try.
KINSLEY: OK. I’m in. Let’s do it.
He doesn’t reply for so long, I’m afraid that it really was a drunk offer he never intended on following through with. I let ten minutes tick by in agonizing indecision.
KINSLEY: Unless you were drunk and kidding?
When my phone finally dings with a response, my entire body goes rigid. I’m grimacing before I even look at the screen. I’m fully prepared for extreme disappointment. The offer was too good to be true. He slept off the alcohol and woke up regretting it. Here it comes.
CONNOR: Hope you requested off the dates already bc I got our tickets. Leaving Tuesday. Fwding confirmation now.
My work email inbox dings next, and I can barely believe my eyes as I watch the airline confirmation materialize before my eyes.
Holy shit.
This is really happening.
I’m going home with Connor for two full weeks…posing as his girlfriend.
Excitement churns hot and wild inside me. I whoop with excitement as I roll out of bed. This means I’ve got three days to get packed and presentable. I’ll need new shoes. And a couple new tops, probably. An emergency thrift store run is in order.
Just because it’s all for show doesn’t mean I don’t want to actually impress him.
Connor is a free agent. Which means that if even a slice of my wildest dreams comes true, this trip back to Bayshore will be the best trip ever.
Chapter 4
CONNOR
We agreed to meet at the airport check-in. I’m business premium, so I’m checked in and ready before I even get to the airport. Which means I’m pacing the entry hall waiting for Kinsley while I compulsively check my phone.
Traveling is not my favorite thing. In concept, sure, it’s great. But being trapped in cars and planes for long periods of time drives me nuts. Usually within an hour or two, I’m ready to bounce off the walls. Having somebody with me is also a logistical move. The distraction helps me tolerate the tedium.
But when Kinsley shows up carrying an olive-green duffel bag like she’s trying to get cast for a bad remake of a war movie, I realize I might have made the wrong choice. This girl is not normal. In the sober light of day, I can’t remember why the hell I thought asking a stranger to pose as my girlfriend was wise.
Yes, this will piss off my dad. Yes, I will appear to have succeeded in the relationship department. And yes, Tamara will a
bsolutely have a conniption once she finds out Kinsley and I are “together.” But I forgot one crucial detail in my evil scheme.
I have to spend the next two weeks with this person.
What the fuck was I thinking?
Kinsley looks flustered as she hobbles up to me. I hurry to take the duffel bag out of her hands; it feels as though she’s packed fifty-pound dumbbells, exclusively. I grunt as I haul it over my shoulder. My abs engage, and I stumble slightly.
“What the hell is in here?”
“Well, hello to you too.” She smiles sheepishly, pushing back some flyways from her blonde braid. “Just the essentials, you know? My jet-setting essentials.”
I snort. “Which includes steel beams and iron dumbbells, right?”
“Oh, come on. It’s not that heavy. I carried it in fine.”
“You were limping.”
She breezes past me. “I need to check in.”
I follow her to the next open gate agent, who processes her ID and prompts her to put her bag on the scale. The red number ticks upward until it finally lands at fifty-three. The gate agent narrows her eyes and tuts.
“This bag is over the allowable weight limit,” she says in a mechanized voice. “You’ll have to reduce it or pay an overage fee.”
Kinsley swears and opens the bag right there. She starts rummaging through the contents. Over her shoulder, I can see she’s packed about a billion books. Of course it’s so damn heavy.
“You know they have books in Ohio too,” I whisper. She shoots me a look and then pulls out her selections, which she stuffs into her oversized purse. The luggage still registers too heavy, though, so to end this painful episode, I offer to pay the overage.
“You really don’t have to,” Kinsley says. “I can take out some more books—”
“We need to get to the gate. Just let me pay.”
She stares at the bag, tapping her finger against the countertop. “I’ll pay you back.”
“How about you lend me a book instead?”
