Bound to her Fake Fiancé Boss: A Fun Sexy Feel Good Billionaire Office Romance
Page 29
Since Holden takes his role of husband seriously when in public, I’m pulled against his side, and I melt into him like honey. He looks down at me in surprise.
“How am I doing?” I wrap my arm around a muscled shoulder, and I swear it’s he who flinches.
I drink him in. He smells delicious—all woodsy and outdoorsy like he’s been cutting lumber, all mixed with a clean man scent. I fight the urge to lean in and sniff him.
“We’ve got twenty-four hours before our clients arrive. We’ll have to make use of every minute.”
I grab his hand, threading my fingers through his while I force my body to relax. I practice the breathing I tried at a yoga class until my downward dog collapsed in a very inelegant mess, taking out the person next to me.
Little creases appear above his eyebrows. “Are you sure you’re ready for this?”
I square my shoulders. “I am ready for this. I may not have much field experience, but I’ve put in the hours of training, and I’ve studied body language.” I can spot a twitching nose at a hundred paces. I huff out a labored breath. “You don’t know me, Holden.”
And you never will.
His words freeze me.
“But, I will know you, Arabella.”
The blood drops from my head at the determination in his voice.
You’ll never know me.
I strengthen my resolve. No one does or will.
Three hours later, we’ve completed the recon of the stunning resort with Holden showing me places potential threats could hide, some I knew, some I didn’t. I surprise him by pointing out a couple of potential hot spots. He is a patient teacher, going over my questions and answering them thoughtfully. Our clients, the bride from a wealthy ex Russian family and the groom who used to be her driver, are arriving tomorrow. Ileana and Dimitri know we’ll be guarding them, and they’ve asked for it to be as low key as possible, so Holden and I will be at all the activities the blushing bride and groom will attend. Well, not all of them. Obviously.
We arrive back at the pool, where couples sit at tables with champagne flutes, cocktails, or glasses of wine. The sunset is putting on a picture postcard display. The sky is ribbons of pink, tangerine, and violet. A lone palm tree a shadow against the backdrop.
I slip into the only free seat at a table in the middle of the balcony. Holden disappears but returns with a bottle of champagne and two flutes. He pours two glasses, passes me one, then sits next to me, slinging his arm around my shoulder. The movement’s abruptness makes me jump and knock the glass from my hand, and in slow cartoon motion, it rolls down the table. Before it hits the concrete, Holden leans forward and grabs the glass. Heat pulses in my cheeks. I gaze around at the curious looks on a couple of faces.
Before I can react, I’m hauled into Holden’s lap, where he slants my head before his mouth and captures mine. My mouth closes in shock, but when his hand brushes the underside of my breast, I gasp, and his tongue slides in. He kisses with an intensity that steals my breath, my mind, my body. Holden doesn’t kiss. Holden claims.
“Put your arms around me,” he murmurs.
Am I this far out of the dating game that I don’t know how to respond? Apparently so, as my arms hang at my sides like wilted sticks of celery.
Finally, my brain returns from its journey to Siberia, and I wind my arms around his neck; then curiously, I run my fingers through his dark hair. Yep, as soft and thick as I imagined. He hisses in a breath as my body melts against his. He releases me, folding me back into the chair as if I’m a doll—a doll with no limbs, a racing heart, and a body burning from the inside out.
I wait for my axis to right and sneak a look at Holden, who takes a sip of champagne, taking in the sunset, as if nothing has happened.
Oh, my God. He looks as excited as if he’s reading about Preparation H.
I wince internally at the quick gut-twist.
Because I get it in a blinding flash.
I am as exciting as hemorrhoid cream to him. It’s part of the job. We’re supposed to be honeymooners. This is what honeymooners do in public. The kiss means nothing.
Embarrassment floods me. I avert my eyes and suck in a shaky breath.
Note to self: It’s all play-acting. You have to learn to play.
It isn’t like I haven’t been play-acting my entire life.
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Acknowledgments
A big squishy hug to the amazingly talented and my bestie Barbara DeLeo who suggested we try this crazy self-publishing thing. Thank you for going on this crazy gig with me, holding my hand, talking me off the ledge, and our weekly FT chats where we diss our kids, talk romance and those elusive ad clicks.
Samanthe Beck you bring joy and love, smarts and wine to the table. You are my girl.
Sherry and Pat for being the best proofreaders out there, and for having my back, and gently pointing out my Kiwi speak. No, Hayson it’s not a lounge room, chilly bin (what is that by the way) or a boot. Translate living room, cooler, trunk.
Megan Records who made this a stronger story with your insights and wonderful thoughts. Thank you!
Thank you, Regina Wamba for your amazing, gorgeous covers. Your patience, the laughs and permission for me to look at hot dudes for teasers. You are very much appreciated.
Thank you Helen. S, Lori and Donice for being your lovely selves.
To the Fake Gordon Ramsay for keeping me overfed and watered.
To my readers, thank you, you mean the world to me. I hope I can take you to a nice place for a few hours.
About the Author
About Hayson
I love Princess Bride, Naked and Afraid (where I’d never be a contestant), I sob through Undercover Boss, Secret Millionaire—any show where the little guy makes it. I’m a card-carrying member of the Buffalo Bills mafia. Showjumping and equestrian eventing are my crack. I’m desperate to find an ugly jug that will be worth twenty million dollars when I take it to Antiques Roadshow. I like ironing, hate peas, and adore donkeys. I play a mean game of Scrabble (I think). I eat nothing with legs and believe wine goes with everything. I’m an expert at finding new and inventive ways to avoid exercise (my hair hurts). I live with the Fake Gordon Ramsay in Redondo Beach California and hail from New Zealand (head toward Antarctica and when you hit Australia, hang a left). Check out her other titles:
She’d love to hear from you. Drop her a line.
haysonmanning.com
Also by Hayson Manning
Wife in Name Only
Winning the Boss’s Heart
Taming the CEO
Ten Days with the Highlander