by Lexi Ryan
“Who is he?” She turns to scan the cars in the drive, as if searching for a clue. “Hanna said that she and Nate didn’t even know you were dating someone.”
I shrug and offer my best mysterious smile. No, my brother didn’t know. And neither did I. Come on, Janelle. You’re an actress. You can do this.
“You ready?” Krystal asks, stepping past me and opening the door. “I don’t know about you, but I need a drink.”
“Sounds like a plan.” I follow her into the house and slide the mask on to cover my face. We go to the basement together, but when Krystal pushes into the crowd to greet people, I hang back.
The second-best thing about this ridiculous Halloween party is that no one knows who I am beneath this costume. Meaning no judgy pursed lips of the holier-than-thou; no sad eyes of those who love me and know what I’m going through.
But that’s only the second-best thing. The first best is that tonight I will put an end to this nonsense about wanting my ex-husband. Or I better. God knows I’m paying Matthew Hailey a pretty penny to wave his magic media-twist wand over my life. I’m not exactly giddy with excitement, but I’m so ready to put this shit behind me. I hate lying to my family and friends, and I’m more than a little disgusted by the idea of making out with some hired stranger, but Matthew’s edict echoes in my head.
We have to take control of the story, and that’s never an easy task, but if you do everything exactly as I say, it will be a worthwhile one.
Taking a deep breath, I scan the party for the man who will be spending the next three months playing the part of my devoted boyfriend, and soon my fiancé. We were supposed to meet before the party, but his plane was delayed, so here I am, preparing to meet him in the middle of a crowd. When I spot him, I bite my lip hard.
Thank you, sweet Mary, mother of Jesus.
Matthew told me my fake fiancé would be wearing a Batman costume, but he didn’t tell me how well he’d be wearing it. And, yeah, okay, it’s a Batman costume, so I suppose he could be hiding a doughy middle under all that faux-Kevlar, but I don’t think so. One look at his wide stance and broad shoulders and I just know this man is every bit as mouthwatering under the Batsuit as Christian Bale. And though that doesn’t change how I feel about making out with a stranger, it does take a bit of the sting out of my fate.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I have to do a wiggle-bend contortion to get it out. It’s a text from Matt, AKA Mr. Fix-It.
He’s there. Are you ready?
Well, fuck, I’m not, but what choice do I have?
Can’t I just introduce him to my friends and family like a normal person?
Stick to the plan, he replies.
There aren’t even any journalists here. Nate is too protective of his family to let that happen. I promise to stick my tongue down his throat the second we’re in front of a camera.
I know what he’s going to say before I even get the text.
I thought you were an actress. Act.
Got it, I text.
I shove the phone back into my pocket and make my way to the bar, where I hope to find the courage I need to follow this plan. Public necking today, meet the family tomorrow.
The bartender is dressed as Supergirl and munching on a handful of raw carrots while eyeing the crowd.
I pretend to consider my options and stare at the row of liquor bottles behind the bar. Of course, I probably shouldn’t drink at all, since I didn’t eat all day, but there’s no room for food in a stomach this packed with nerves. Vodka will help. There’s always room for vodka. “Could you make me a lemon drop martini?”
Supergirl sighs heavily and swallows a mouthful of carrot. “You really want a martini glass on the dance floor?”
“Of course she doesn’t,” Krystal says, sidling up beside me. “Make it a lemon drop shot. Four of them, actually.”
Supergirl nods in approval and mixes our shots.
“Four?” I ask Krystal as the bartender fills the shot glasses.
“Two of us with two hands each.” She grins, shoots back her first, and makes a face. “Damn, that’s sour.”
Shrugging, I follow her lead. The sooner this alcohol hits my system, the better. I grimace at the taste but swallow fast, and Krystal and I take the second shot together.
“Better?” Krystal asks.
I nod.
“Have you two seen Asher Logan?” Supergirl asks. “I heard he was going to be here. Or Nate Crane? His wife hired me, but I haven’t gotten to meet him.”
“Oh, my brother should be around here somewhere.” I pretend not to notice when she whips her head around to gape at me. I’m guessing she’s about to piss her gossip-hungry pants. Nate and Asher are celebrities, sure, but considering they both live in New Hope and have children and wives they dote on, they aren’t very interesting to the tabloid-loving portion of the population. “The key with Nate is to look for Hanna. If you find his wife, you know he’s never too far away.”
“You’re . . .” She licks her lip but misses the chunk of carrot sitting there. Dropping her gaze, she slowly takes in my Catwoman costume. “You’re Janelle Crane?”
I put a finger to my lips. “Shh. Don’t tell.”
“Of course,” she says.
Yeah, right. I know her type. The only things she won’t tell about tonight are the boring ones. Which is why I intend to be anything but boring. “I’ve gotta be incognito tonight so I can spend some time with my boyfriend in peace.”
“Boyfriend?”
I put my hand to my mouth. “Could you forget I said that?” Her eyes light up, and I can see it now. Matt’s right. Grassroots. This is the way to go.
“Who is he?”
“She won’t tell,” Krystal says. “But can you blame her with the way the media hounds her?”
I smile and lift a shoulder in a halfhearted shrug. “We’re keeping it quiet.” I walk away before the bartender or Krystal can reply. My work here is done. The bartender will be watching me like a hawk for the rest of the night, and soon enough talking to all her local friends about us. In a few days, Bella’s story won’t be dominating the news anymore. Mine will. “Now, if you ladies will excuse me.”
Then I move toward the guy in the Batman costume, swallowing every bit of my trepidation and fear. More to convince myself than to play my part, I add a little sway to my hips as I stalk toward him.
Let’s do this.
I grab his wrist to lead him to the dance floor.
“What the—” He swallows hard as he takes me in, his gaze eating me up from my stiletto boots to this ridiculously tight leather suit. From the way he lingers on my curves, you’d think he really was hot for me and not just some guy Matt paid to play the part. He lifts his dark gaze to mine and the knot of tension in my belly turns liquid.
Maybe this costume is going to my head, but there’s chemistry between us. I feel like my cells actually purr in attraction. It’s hard to believe I was dreading this thirty minutes ago. Stepping close, I loop my whip behind his neck.
“Hey there,” he says.
I want to get this part over with. Once we give everyone at this party a little show, the gossip train will start running and we can get out of here and talk about what comes next. “Just shut up and make this look believable.”
I crush my mouth to his. At the age of fifteen, I had my first fake kiss filming a made-for-television movie, and I’ve had hundreds since. I know how to make a fake kiss look like the hottest, most heartfelt thing you’ve ever seen.
Only . . .
He gasps softly, right against my lips, and then he cups my jaw with his hand and slants his mouth over mine, and even though this is exactly what he’s supposed to do, even though Matt’s too good to hire anyone who can’t pull it off, it’s not what I expect. It’s my turn to gasp. The slide of his tongue against mine sends electric sparks through me, lighting nerve endings I’d thought died in the wreckage of my divorce-ravaged heart.
My pulse stutters and stumbles forward al
l at once. It’s no longer racing as much as scrambling to catch up. This is how kisses should make you feel. Like you want to crawl into the kiss. Like it’s too much and too little all at once and you can’t decide if you want to back away and catch your breath or throw yourself into it and risk never coming back.
When I realize I’ve lost control—that I’ve stopped thinking about why we’re doing this—I jerk away and our eyes lock. His gaze is dark and intense.
Who knew eyes could reveal so much when framed by a mask? I imagine my eyes hold much of what I see in his—heat, passion, confusion.
Suddenly, I need to see him, and I lift up his mask to reveal Cade Watts’s face. My mind spins for a minute, like wheels trying to find traction on ice, as I run through explanations. Did Matt hire Cade? Why would Cade agree to this?
My mental wheels find traction and take me right to the intersection of disappointment and mortification. This is not some fiancé-for-hire flown in from LA; he’s a local police officer I’ve lusted after more than a few times.
“Who are you?” he whispers.
I back away from the need that has my gut wrapped in its fist, and from the desire in Cade’s eyes. I back away from the evidence that I, again, am responsible for fucking up my own life.
I stumble as I trip over someone’s feet.
“Janelle?” the man behind me asks. “What are you doing?”
Spinning, I see Batman. Another Batman. The right Batman? Maybe. Probably the one I was supposed to kiss in front of everyone. The one who was hired by Matthew and who’s on board with my plan. Suddenly, I can’t do this anymore. I’m sick of turning the other cheek, sick of facing the world with my chin up when I want to hide in shame.
So I run.
I pray my fake fiancé will leave me alone and save our plans for another day. Tonight, God help me, the only man I want chasing after me is one who can make me forget the world like that kiss just did. The only man I want touching me is Cade Watts.
Chapter 2
Cade
I find Catwoman in the backyard, an empty shot glass dangling from her fingers as she looks up at the stars. Before I can think about what I’m doing, I take the glass from her hand, set it down, and back her against the side of the house. Her eyes go wide and her lips part—those pink, perfect lips demand all my attention.
“Listen,” she says. “I—”
I kiss her before she can say more. Hard and then soft, because damn, her mouth is sweet and her hands are already looping around my neck, her body pressing closer. Maybe part of me likes that I don’t know who she is. Maybe part of me is sick of worrying about tomorrow and the next day, sick of trying to morph my life into what happiness is supposed to look like and missing the mark every time.
I break the kiss. “Is this what you wanted?”
“Yes. No . . .” She draws in a shaky breath. “I shouldn’t have kissed you.” Her voice is vaguely familiar, but I can’t place it. She arches her back, pressing her chest against mine. “It was a mistake.”
“Probably.” I stroke my thumb along her jaw, relishing that bit of exposed skin. “Are you interested in making another one?”
“You don’t even know who I am.”
“Do I need to?” I want to argue with any objection that might make her run from me again, but all I can do is ask the question. The next move is hers.
And she takes it, kissing me again, murmuring, “This is crazy,” against my lips even as her fingers slide into my hair and she presses so close I’d think she was trying to hide inside of me. Then it’s just lips parting, and tongues touching, and the feel of her body against mine. My hands take a tour of her sides, from the curve of her hip to the swell of her breasts. She’s petite, but not one of those women who’s all bone and hard angles. This one is soft in all the right places, and I want to feel those curves bare under my hands.
When Catwoman breaks the kiss, she pulls back and looks around, as if trying to remember where we are. It takes a minute for me to remember myself, but we’re in Nate Crane’s backyard, his Halloween party rocking on the other side of the wall. Music floats out from inside, laced with the sound of the wind as it swirls around us, crackling its way through the trees’ unshed leaves. The light from the stars and a three-quarter moon make this feel more like a fantasy than reality.
“Give me a second?” she asks.
“Take all the time you need.”
Her smile is shaky, and I watch as she disappears into the house. When she comes back, she grabs my hand, and her skin against mine sends electric sparks up my arm.
“Come on.”
I follow her around the front and down to a house on the opposite side of the road.
“Isn’t this Asher Logan’s house?” I ask, when she slides a key in the lock.
“His wife is a friend of mine.” She opens the door and heads inside, but I stop, staring at her back as worry eats at my gut. She must realize I’m not behind her, because she turns back to me after a few steps. “I’m sorry. Is this weird? I just thought . . .” She worries her lower lip between her teeth.
Damn, that mouth . . .
For a moment I was actually worried that she might be Asher Logan’s wife. I’m all for the spontaneous hookup tonight, but I don’t fuck around with other men’s women. My worry is short-lived, however, and dissolves as soon as I make myself process it. Maggie has red hair, and my Catwoman has dark hair peeking out behind that mask.
“Do you want—”
She doesn’t get the chance to finish that sentence, because I push into the house and kick the door closed behind me. Then my mouth is on hers again. I can’t resist those lips and wouldn’t want to. There’s something about her that has my gut tied up in knots, and the only thing that eases the tension is touching her, kissing her.
Ridiculous. You don’t even know her.
She leads me up the stairs and opens the door to a bedroom with a king-size bed and French doors that look out onto a balcony and the river beyond. I’m vaguely aware of the house and the wealth evident all around me, but that fades into the background of my awareness of her. She moves like she was made for that costume, her hips swaying as she walks, the shiny black material showing off the perfect rounded ass beneath.
When she opens the balcony doors, fresh air and the rush of the river fill the room. She stands on the threshold—not outside or inside, as if she can’t make a decision—and keeps her back to me. “Would you believe me if I told you I’ve never done anything like this before?”
I would. Another night, another woman, I’d probably think that was a bullshit line. But not with her. She’s damn near fidgeting with nerves, and I want nothing more than to soothe them, to help her relax and forget whatever it is that has her simultaneously so desperate for and anxious about tonight.
“Neither have I.” I come to stand behind her and wrap my arms around her waist before dropping my mouth to her neck.
“I’m not usually interested in one-night stands,” she says. “But I need this. One night that’s not about all the other bullshit.”
“What’s this about, then?”
“Attraction.” She moans softly as I scrape my teeth over her earlobe. “Chemistry. Pleasure.”
So that’s what this is. Fair enough. This is better. This is what I need. She tilts her head farther to the side to allow my mouth better access to the sweet spot behind her ear. What we both need.
“You taste so sweet,” I murmur against her neck. I tug her earlobe between my teeth again and suck until she moans. “I wonder if the rest of you is as sensitive as this spot here.” My tongue darts out to touch the tender spot beneath her ear again.
“Why don’t you find out?” She arches her back and the movement presses her ass against my groin thanks to the added height from her stiletto boots.
“Jesus,” I hiss. I slide my hand down between her legs, cupping her then applying pressure there until she grinds her ass against my erection. “Where do I have permission to tas
te you?” I withdraw my hand from between her legs and she whimpers in protest. Spinning her around, I press her against the doorjamb and graze my knuckles over the exposed swell of her breasts. “Here?” I ask, and she moans her approval even before I drop my mouth to sample that sweet skin. I kiss each breast then open my mouth and slip my tongue just beneath the edge of the costume.
Her hands go to my hair, holding me and leading me and urging me on all at once. When I yank the top down and expose the peak of her breast to my mouth, her nails curl into the back of my neck.
I graze her nipple with my thumb. “You want me to taste you here.” It’s not a question, and she doesn’t reply with words. She arches her back, lifting her breast to my mouth. I tease her, brushing my lips across her nipple and then my tongue. She returns my teasing with a hand against my cock. I can’t stand the torment, and the sound of her moan as I draw her nipple between my teeth nearly undoes me.
She rubs me through my pants, and I wrap my hand around her wrist to pull her away. “You don’t like that?” she asks.
“I like it too much, but I’m not done tasting you yet.” I reach for her mask, wanting to see her face, but she shakes her head.
“Could we . . .” She cuts her gaze away from me. “I don’t want to be myself tonight. You make me forget who I am.” By the way she says it, I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing, but I understand that sentiment too well, so I nod.
“So the mask stays on.”
“Yes, please.”
“Then I’m going to need something from you.”
“What’s that?”
“I need more skin, precious. That getup is fucking hot, but it’s in my way. You keep your mask on, but the rest of it needs to come off.”
* * *
Janelle
Cade wants me naked.
Hoo-boy.
I step away from the heat of his body and his intoxicating touch, searching for a place where the air isn’t so charged with crackling need.
This is insane. This isn’t me.
