by Lisa Wells
“Whoa, where are you going?” said a groggy voice. The same voice she’d heard whisper sweet nothings in her ears in her dreams.
Adeline wiggled. “Let go of me.” What was he doing in her bed? There was barely room in it for her. A bed she’d slept in since moving in with Dottie as a teen. A ridiculously small bed for an adult. Adeline knew she should trade-up to a larger bed, but sentimentality kept its grasp on her, and she couldn’t get rid of it. Besides, the couch made out to a full-size bed for nights when lovers slept over. Theoretically.
Jack’s warm palm slid its way up and over her ribs, letting her go a fraction of an inch at a time. Like the slow hand of a Latin lover. Only he wasn’t her lover. Or Latin. Just Jack. Sexy, nerdy Jack.
She scampered out of her bed and yanked her pajama top together where a button had come undone. She managed to knock over a pile of boxes in the process.
“Are you moving?” he asked.
“Maybe.” Her lease was up. The owners had informed her it might not be renewed for the six months she had requested because they had a buyer interested. She grabbed a cinnamon candy off her nightstand and popped it in her mouth. Then sanitized her hands.
“Maybe sounds very cryptic,” Jack said, giving her a lazy grin. One that took a thousand hours to reach its peak. He reached over and snagged a piece of candy for himself.
“The owners think they have a buyer. If they do, I’ll have to be out at the end of the month. Why are you in my bed?” And wearing only your boxers?
“How was I supposed to make sure you didn’t stop breathing if I wasn’t next to you counting the number of times you snore in a minute?” He rolled over onto his back and crossed his hands behind his head.
“I do not snore.” Adeline didn’t know where to look. He didn’t seem the least bit concerned to be hosting an obvious boner. And her gaze was drawn there like the organ held fiendish prowess.
“If you say so.” He grinned, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
He knew he was making her uncomfortable. Stupid boy.
“Your bed’s too small for sleepovers.”
“That’s because I don’t do sleepovers.”
He looked surprised by her revelation. “Never?”
Lots of people didn’t do sleepovers. She wasn’t odd. “Never.” She pointed to a pillow. “You could cover your, uh, erection.”
He yawned. As if he found the fact she was in a possible tizzy over his morning wood boring. “Sorry, there’re some things a man has no control over.” He took the pillow and positioned it over his arousal.
His cool-as-a-frozen-cucumber attitude was breaching her defenses. “You look terrible,” she said. A complete and utter lie. He looked like a man she suddenly wanted to kiss. Intensely kiss. A man who had the blood humming in her veins.
He ran a hand through his hair. “I guess an hour of sleep doesn’t work for me anymore at my age.”
Had he really stayed awake and watched her sleep? Foggy memories of him gently waking her throughout the night and asking her asinine questions like white or wheat bread surfaced. Which meant he had spent the night in her bed. She squirmed at the thought. Or maybe it was her other thoughts making her squirm. “Thank you for making sure I breathed all night long, but as you can see, I survived.” She pointed to her bedroom door. He needed to go before he realized her knees were as wobbly as his dick was hard.
“You’re welcome. Why don’t you do sleepovers?” He didn’t sound the least bit interested in leaving.
“Sleepovers entail morning-after small talk.” Go. Go. Go. Go.
His eyes widened a fraction. “You don’t like small talk?”
“Don’t say it like I’m an oddity that belongs in a Ripley’s Believe It or Not Museum.” His tone was the same one kids would use when they discovered she was a foster child. Your mom didn’t want you? “Morning-after small talk is awkward.”
He sat up. “So in social settings you can do small talk?”
Why wasn’t he getting up and leaving instead of sitting there looking like an advertisement for rumpled sex? “Of course. Not always appropriate, but then, you know…” She licked her lips.
“Interesting.”
What was so interesting about that? Was he being sarcastic? Did he think she was more boring than a reading of the ingredients in milk? “If you’re done quizzing me about my sleeping habits and my talking habits, I think you should go.”
He stood, pulled on his jeans, and walked toward her.
Heat coiled low in her belly. Actually, it coiled at the vee of her legs.
“Sorry, Red, but I’m not done talking.”
She took a breath. He wanted to talk. Was the bare-chest walk a ploy to keep her from thinking straight about whatever it was he wanted to talk about?
If so, it was working. Broad shoulders, defined muscles, and chest hair that tapered at the elastic of his boxers definitely affected her brain cells. “Don’t call me, Red.”
“I did a lot of thinking last night while I watched you sleep. Do you have any idea the thoughts a man can have while snuggled into a woman who looks and feels like you?”
“I don’t need a play-by-play or even the shortened version of your thoughts.” She took a step back, putting some distance between them. He matched her step back with a step forward. And damn, the door got to her back awfully quick. She was trapped from retreating any farther.
“That’s too bad.” He placed a finger under her chin and lifted it until their gazes met. His dreamy brown eyes intoxicated her with their whiskey-like potency.
Hell, he was cute. “What do you think you’re doing?” she managed to ask through the thickness in her throat. If her intuition was right, he was going to kiss her.
The thought of his lips touching hers made her slightly woozier than her head injury last night.
Who was she kidding? The thought made her tremble.
He placed his other hand against the door frame and leaned in—as if they weren’t already close enough. “I haven’t decided yet,” he said.
“You haven’t decided?”
He brushed his thumb over her bottom lip. “What if I said I’m going to kiss you? I’ve wanted to ever since I first saw you last night.”
She met his gaze, determined not to let him know she felt the touch all the way to her toes. “I’d say there’s absolutely no reason for that to happen.” Her voice was unsteady as she tried to stay a step ahead of him and his thought processes, but focusing had become problematic. Why did he want to kiss her? Just so he could say he did?
With hot, sure fingers, Jack brushed her hair away from her neck. He lightly pushed the collar of her shirt down, rubbing a finger along her collarbone. “If I kiss you here, are you going to complain?” If she wasn’t mistaken, his voice wavered.
Adeline swallowed. Could a person explode from want? “No.” Wait. Was that the right answer? Damn. She should have said…. Wait. What was the question again?
He groaned softly. “Perfect.”
With the single word of approval coming from his sexy lips, Adeline’s breathing picked up. The throbbing between her legs made her painfully aware of what she was going to miss out on should she order him out of her home before anything happened.
In one smooth movement, he leaned down and placed his warm lips to her collarbone.
Adeline mewled with pleasure. She couldn’t remember the last time that sound had escaped her lips.
“Adie?” Her name sounded like a promise on his tongue.
In anticipation, she leaned fully against the door and closed her eyes. The coolness of the wood soothed her overheated skin through the thin layer of her pajamas. Her lips parted. A swirling vortex of sensations escalated inside of her.
“Adie, look at me?”
She opened her eyes but didn’t speak. She didn’t trust her vocal cords.
“How is your head this morning? Do you have a headache?”
She swallowed. Why did he care? She’d survived the night. That w
as all he’d been made to care about. “My head’s fine.”
He stared intently into her eyes. Was he looking for signs of a headache? Or something else? Like an invitation to kiss her?
“Stop staring, you’re making me nervous.”
He grinned, showing off his smile. “You’re so beautiful, it’s hard not to stare. And it’s hard to remember you have a head injury. And I should be treating you like a breakable antique instead of—”
“I’m fine, stop worrying about me.”
“In that case, Adeline Rigby, would you be my pretend fiancée?”
Chapter Eight
Jack couldn’t take the words back. Didn’t want to—until a strangely guttural noise came from Adie. Damn. That didn’t sound promising.
She twisted away from him and grabbed for the robe hanging on the back of her bedroom door. She laid her head against the door like she was trying to get a grip.
Was that a good thing or a bad thing?
She turned back to face him.
Her pupils were blown, and her chest continued to rise and fall with her erratic breathing. A pretty pink blush stained her cheeks and chest. She looked like a woman who very much wanted to be kissed. But she’d been the one to draw back, and he wouldn’t push. He wasn’t a creeper.
She slipped on the robe and sashed it tight, then stuffed her hands in the pockets.
He took a step back and warily watched. He didn’t quite have Adie figured out. In some ways she was very much a loose cannon. She could very easily pull out that pink Taser gun Kinley warned him about and shoot him for trying what she might perceive as funny business.
She turned. “I can’t have this conversation in my bedroom with you looking like that.” She pointed to his unzipped jeans.
He nodded. “Fair enough. Get dressed, and we’ll go have breakfast and talk.” He picked up his shirt, careful not to give her a Taser-ass shot, and slipped it on. His pretend engagement proposal could have been handled a bit better. Obviously finesse was not an attribute he possessed on an hour of sleep.
“Talk…yes…we’ll talk.” She mumbled something he didn’t catch.
“What was that?” he asked cautiously.
“Just go to the kitchen, and I’ll be there in a minute.” Before he could reply, she was gone.
Hell. She didn’t give him an answer. Would it be yes? As crazy as the plan was, it could work. With the right woman. And somewhere around three a.m. he’d decided Adie was the right woman.
He found a Keurig in the kitchen and made them both a cup of black coffee.
“Now we can talk.” Her voice startled him. He’d expected her to take forever in the bathroom.
He turned slowly. “You look lovely.” She was wearing a soft pink T-shirt and a pair of black, form fitting yoga pants.
Her eyes darkened. “Thanks.”
Her hair was pulled back in a low ponytail. Leaving her neck bare for more kisses. She had a perfect neck for kissing. Long and slender. Had she revealed that on purpose?
“So, how would this pretend engagement work? I can’t answer without more information. It seems pretty sketchy.”
“We’d need a few practice dates,” he said, holding out a cup of coffee to her.
Everything about her changed. Her posture went rigid, her smile straightened, her eyes grew steely. “I see,” she said, taking the coffee in a jerky movement.
“Did I say something wrong?” Practice dates sounded reasonable.
She walked to a cupboard, took out a sugar bowl, and loaded her coffee with the sweet stuff.
He watched, enjoying the soft swell of her hips in the clingy material of her pants.
She hopped up on the counter, picked up the mug, and slowly brought it to her lips.
Full red lips meant for kissing.
“What do we need to practice?” she asked, her voice still soft, her smile still hard. “You say, meet my fiancée, and I say, how do you do.”
It wasn’t that simple. He opened his mouth to say so, but nothing came out. His normal repertoire of smooth lines was nowhere to be found.
She cocked her head as if amused by his wariness. “Do you really think I have to practice at being someone’s fiancée?” Again with the soft voice.
He picked up his coffee and took a sip. What could he say that would make this all better? “We do if our engagement is to be sans the sex.” He wanted to kick his own ass the moment the words sans the sex came out. Out of all of the reasons he could have given her for why they needed to practice at being engaged, because they weren’t going to have sex wasn’t even in the top one thousand.
She was taking another sip of her coffee as he spoke. And judging by how her face turned red, and her lovely lips spewed coffee everywhere, that wasn’t a reason she was imagining, either.
Once she thought about it, she would see it made sense. She was Kinley’s friend. Sex made things messy. Kinley would kick his ass if he inadvertently hurt Adie. The sans sex was no doubt his subconscious making him do the right thing versus the fun thing. Besides, didn’t fake fiancée imply no sex? Or was that just him being too much of a gentleman? Hell. Now was the perfect time to say he was kidding. Of course, they’d have sex. They were, after all, two healthy adults with sexual needs who were attracted to one another. He pressed his lips firmly together to keep the words from sliding out.
Chapter Nine
Adeline watched in horror as coffee dripped down Jack’s chin onto his shirt, onto her counter, and onto her spotless floor. She jumped down and grabbed a container of Clorox wipes from under the sink. In name only? In freaking name only? He wanted her to be his pretend fiancée in name only.
She gave him a bright-ass smile. “Of course it’s in name only. No need to spell that out.” In. Freaking. Name. Only. She tossed a dishtowel at him so he could wipe off his shirt.
She got down on her knees and scrubbed coffee off the floor. How in the hell had she misread the signals? Because he’d been flashing the wrong signals. Why had he been flashing the wrong signals? You don’t turn a girl into a puddle of lust just by kissing her neck and then proclaim you want an in-name-only relationship with her.
Go jump in pond scum, Jack Foster!
Who could blame her for being upset? Hell. When a man asks you to be his pretend hitch after waking up with a hard-on, it’s because he’s looking for an opportunity-rich environment to pursue a sexual relationship with you.
Right?
Of course, I’m right.
Except, obviously, she was wrong.
Adeline stood up and threw the wipes away, then grabbed another handful. She scrubbed at the counter, even though no coffee landed there. The fact he didn’t ask her to be his pretend fiancée for that reason hurt her feelings. Stupid, stupid feelings.
Not because she wanted to sleep with him…much…but because what man would ask a woman for a relationship in name only if he found her at all desirable? He’d go for the whole enchilada before settling for the chips and salsa. Was his boner this morning really one of those generic boners men wake up with even if they’re alone? Not bearing her name?
He took the Clorox wipes from her hands. “Did the coffee go down the wrong pipe or did my words cause your reaction?”
She did an internal foot stomp. Idiot man. “Must have been the coffee. I don’t even remember what you said.” She turned her back to him. Made another cup of coffee. Spent the time regrouping. Or that was the plan until he placed his elbow on the counter and leaned in so he could see her face.
“Are you going to say yes?” he asked.
There was no way in hell she was going to give him an easy yes. If…she even gave him a yes. She might not. She hopped back up on the countertop and gave him her best nonchalant smile. “If I say no, are you going to start looking for another woman to be your pretend fiancée?”
He straightened. “Honestly?”
She refrained from rolling her eyes. No, lie to me. “I always want an honest answer. I’m weird that way.”<
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He gave a self-deprecating laugh, then leaned against the island across from her. “My boss is old-fashioned, and I’m not going to change that about him any time soon, so as much as I hate to admit—yes. I’ll find someone else.”
“I’m sure you have plenty of women in your life who are willing to help you out.”
He shrugged. “None I trust.”
“Sounds like you hang out with some real winners.” Damn Kinley for proposing her as a possibility. Outside of messing with her sexual-equilibrium, in freaking name only, doing this was going to force her to make up her mind about something she wasn’t ready to make up her mind about. The path of her future. Common sense said to put Paris and culinary school on hold.
He took a drink of his coffee. “In my experience, women talk about only wanting to have fun and games, but after a few dates, they start dropping hints that they’d be open to something more permanent.”
So if she spoke up now and said she wanted to add sex to their equation, he’d probably think she was falling for him. “That’s the price you pay for being so damn irresistible.” She stuck her finger in her mouth and made a gagging motion, but immediately regretted the action. How old am I? Ten.
He laughed. A warm, comforting sound. “I should probably come with a warning label that says ‘Mr. Irresistible.’”
That was twice he’d laughed at himself. She liked that about him. And she liked the fact he didn’t get mad that his shirt was now coffee stained. “I’m sure there’s at least one other woman out there, other than myself, who can assure you with a gazillion percent honesty that she’s not going to fall in love with you.” Lust yes. Love no.
His brows furrowed. “Why are you so sure you would never fall for me?”
Did he really find it so hard to believe a woman could resist handing him her heart? “Because I have plans. Plans that don’t include I do.”
“You’ve mentioned that before. Why?” He didn’t sound conceited. Instead, he sounded full of maddening masculine confidence. Like women hyperventilated over him all the time. Gag.
“I’m the product of two individuals who thought love was forever, and it wasn’t. Believe me when I say I’d throw myself in a vat of rotting broccoli mixed with pig intestines before I’d allow myself to fall in love.” Intestines? Now I sound like a fourteen-year-old boy.
