by Lili Valente
In the past three years, as my temporary break from the dating scene to focus on work slowly became something closer to a vow of celibacy, I thought I’d moved past the roaring hunger for physical connection. Just as I’d outgrown pizza and beer as diet staples, I’d assumed I’d also outgrown the hormones that had made Bear and I the butt of our friends’ jokes during our college days. Back then, the thought of going more than a day or two without jumping into bed with my big, furry boyfriend was unthinkable. I was hooked on his body, the closeness we shared, and all the incredible, previously undiscovered things he made me feel.
But now I’m older and wiser. I’m a twenty-six-year-old woman with a demanding full-time job, responsibilities, and the maturity to realize sex isn’t that big a deal in the grander scheme of things. Like ice cream, it’s a delicious indulgence, but I’m perfectly capable of going without it when I’m watching calories in pre-swimsuit season or focusing my attention on other things.
Or so I’d thought…
Oh, what a fool I’ve been. What an idiot. What a dangerously dimwitted dumb-dumb, wandering around without a clue that I was a sex-deprived ticking time bomb, ready to explode the moment Tristan Hunter pulled me into his arms and kissed me like there was no one else in the world.
As we make our way into Locals and slide onto stools at the end of the dimly lit bar, where only a few other patrons are passing a lazy, late-October Sunday night, it takes every bit of self-control I possess not to wrap my arms around his neck, push up on tiptoe, and see if our second kiss will be as explosive as our first. This situation absolutely calls for all my usual reserve and caution—this man is my boss, for God’s sake—but right now hunger is calling the shots.
I’m starving, famished, and if I’m not careful that wild, ravenous part of me is going to do something so stupid no amount of apologies the morning after will be able to make it better.
I should leave.
Now.
At the very least, I should order coffee or tea—something cozy and caffeinated to help shore up my inhibitions instead of stripping them away.
But when Tristan suggests a Pinot he enjoyed the last time he was here, I let him order two glasses, and when the bartender sits mine in front of me, I grip the heavy glass in both hands and take a healthy gulp. It tastes like dried cherries, peat, and secret, earthy things that only come out at night, and it is absolutely way too sexy for drinking with a friend.
Especially considering all my kiss-addled mind can think about is how well Tristan’s mouth would pair with this sinfully delicious red…
“So, as far as I see it, we have two choices moving forward,” Tristan says, his dark eyes serious and his brow furrowed, making it clear how much he regrets the past half hour.
I nod, forcing an all-business expression onto my face, even as my heart curls into a sad ball behind my ribs. Yes, I’ve had a crush on this man for years. And yes, that kiss was light-up-the-night breathtaking…for me. But clearly, Tristan doesn’t feel the same way. He’s worried about the fallout, not about how right it felt to lock lips with someone he previously considered “just friends” material.
“Option one, we go with the lie and pretend to be engaged until Kim and Bear move back to Australia,” he says, making my stomach assume the fetal position along with my heart, my gut instantly recognizing what a bad idea that is.
There’s no way I’ll be able to pretend to be in love with Tristan for months without giving away my very real feelings for him. From my first week on the job three years ago, when I watched him coax a starving, abused cocker spaniel out of her kennel and into his arms with nothing but his gentle voice and a promise from his heart that he would never let anyone hurt her again, I’ve been gone on this man. And since that day, he’s proven in a thousand different ways that he’s worthy of every ounce of my unrequited devotion.
One look at Tristan and any woman can see that he’s gorgeous—a face like a Latin pop star with the body of an Olympic athlete and dark, silky, shampoo-commercial-model worthy hair that hangs down into his eyes when he’s gone too long without a trim—but it’s his heart that’s truly one in a million. Tristan is the kindest, most generous, most thoughtful person I’ve ever met. He’s also an incredibly hard worker, devoted to the animals in his care, and not afraid to fight for what he believes in when he and our board of directors clash on what’s best for the shelter.
And now I know that he kisses like Ryan Gosling in The Notebook—like a man who wouldn’t hesitate to carry you up a hill, across the lawn, into the house, up the stairs, and down the hall to the bedroom, kissing you the entire way because he refuses to pull his lips from yours for a single freaking second, even if it means exerting Herculean amounts of strength and will.
I’m so drawn into the fantasy—and imagining what it would be like to kiss Tristan in the rain—that I zone out for a second.
“So…what do you think, Zoey?” Tristan asks in a tone that makes me think it isn’t the first time he’s asked the question. “Option one or option two?”
I shake my head, laughing as I reach for my wine. “I’m sorry, I spaced. It’s been a long day. What was option two again?”
“Option two is we lay low and hope the engagement doesn’t come up. But if we happen to run into Kim or Bear, and they happen to ask about it, then we say that you called it off.” He shrugs. “Say you got cold feet or something, whatever you think is best. As long as it makes it look like I’m the loser and you’re happily moving on with your life.”
I frown, hating that idea. “I don’t want to make you look like a loser.”
“But I deserve it.” He holds my gaze with an intensity that makes my thin blue sweater and gauzy chiffon skirt suddenly feel too warm. “I’m the one who got us into this mess.”
“That’s not true. I came to you, begging for your help. And you helped. You did.” I take another sip of my wine, hoping it will hide the flush I can feel heating my cheeks.
“Did I really?” he asks, arching a brow.
“Well, Kim didn’t get away with making me feel two feet tall,” I say. “And Bear doesn’t think I’m a pathetic loser who’s been mourning our breakup for the past three years, so… Things could definitely have been worse.”
Tristan studies me for a long moment, until I have to fight the urge to squirm.
“What?” I ask, swiping a finger self-consciously across the edges of my lips, wondering if I have a red wine mustache.
He shakes his head. “Nothing, I just… Have you really been mourning him for three years? Is that why you don’t date much?”
No, I’ve been dreaming about you, boss man. Crushing on you. Fantasizing about what it would be like to be the lucky woman you come home to every night.
Thankfully, instead of any of those mortifying confessions, I say in my best all-business voice, “Not at all. I loved Bear, and we had a few great years together, but we weren’t compatible long term. I think we both knew that, even though he was the one who officially decided to end it.”
“Why weren’t you compatible?” Tristan asks. “I mean, if that’s not too personal…”
“No, it’s not too personal. I just…” I swirl my wine, watching the ruby liquid change colors as it flows around the edge of the glass. “I always saw myself settling down and putting down roots after college, and Bear wanted to travel, roaming the world until he found a place to stick for a while and then moving on when that gig wasn’t fun anymore. That kind of life wasn’t for me. I like community and a sense of place. I like feeling like—”
“Like you belong.” Tristan finishes my thought with a nod. “I get it. I’m the same way. That’s why I never left Sonoma County, even when Kim transferred to Sacramento instead of staying at Sonoma State with me. We’d been together for two years at that point, but it was easier to do the long-distance thing with my girlfriend than to leave everyone here behind.” He rolls his eyes. “But you know my family. There’s always some kind of drama in the works.”
“I love your family,” I say sincerely. “They’re great. I can see why you wanted to stay close to them.”
“But if I’d gone with Kim, I might have seen through her so much sooner.” Tristan leans in closer, making my pulse pick up. “What did she do to you, Zoey? I’ve never seen you upset like that.”
“Oh, just…kid stuff really.” I shake my head, swallowing hard as I realize how little I can tell Tristan about the great and evil Khan. He almost married Kim, for God’s sake, and he was completely devastated when she broke it off.
If he finds out the entire ugly truth, he’ll feel like even more of a fool, and I refuse to do that to him.
“Really?” Tristan arches a dubious brow. “Didn’t seem like kid stuff to me.”
“It’s old news. Seriously, nothing worth rehashing,” I insist, pushing on when his expression remains skeptical. “I was overreacting, which means this is as much my fault as yours. So…” I pull in a deep breath, ignore the voice screaming in my head that this is the worst idea ever, bar none, and smile. “So, let’s do it. Let’s pretend to be engaged until they leave.”
“You’re sure? Because I don’t mind looking like an idiot. It wouldn’t be the first time, and I’m sure it won’t be the last.”
“No way,” I say, forcing certainty into my tone. “Neither one of us is playing the fool this time. We’ll pretend to be engaged, make sure Kim and Bear see that we’re deliriously happy without them, and send them back to Australia knowing that we’re over them and moving on.”
His shoulders relax and some of the tension fades from around his eyes. “Sounds good,” he says, before adding with a laugh, “I mean, it doesn’t sound good, it sounds crazy, and I’m sorry I got us into this mess. But making sure Kim knows I’m not sitting in a corner, rocking naked in a puddle of my own tears, mourning the end of us, will be nice.”
“Rocking naked in your own tears isn’t pretty,” I agree, though I honestly doubt Tristan could be anything but ridiculously beautiful naked, no matter what else he was doing at the time.
And that’s the kind of thing I have to stop thinking if I’m going to have any shot at pulling this off.
“No, it isn’t.” He rubs a hand across his jaw, making a soft scratching sound as his skin brushes stubble, making my lightly whisker-burned lips tingle.
I have whisker burn from kissing him, and right now all I want to do is kiss him again. Instead, I take a drink of my wine—a big drink, draining it all the way to the bottom—and set my glass down with a firm nod.
“Then it’s settled.” I slip off my stool and grab my purse from the hook beneath the bar. “We’ll start tomorrow. See you at work.”
“Oh, okay.” Tristan blinks and reaches for his suit coat on the stool next to him. “Just let me pay the bill and I’ll drive you home.”
I wave a breezy hand through the air and back toward the door. “No worries, I’ll call a car. No reason for you to drive all the way out to Dry Creek again.”
“But I—”
“Seriously, I’m good. No worries,” I insist, head swimming from the combined influence of the wine and Tristan standing there looking like sex on a stick in gray suit pants, a crisp white button-down, and the deep-charcoal and gold vest all of the groomsmen wore for his brother’s wedding.
I spent all afternoon at an uber-romantic wedding, the evening sipping champagne at a reception packed with people who are madly in love, and ended the night with an earth-shattering kiss before getting fake engaged to my real-life crush. It’s been an over-the-top swoony kind of day. That’s the only reason I’m finding it so hard to keep from running to Tristan, driving my fingers through his hair, and pulling his mouth to mine.
I just need to get some distance and some sleep, and by tomorrow morning I’ll be back in my right mind.
So even though Tristan clearly thinks I’m insane, I wave cheerily, say, “See you tomorrow,” and make a run for it.
I find a cab waiting not far from the bus stop in Healdsburg’s historic town square, slide into the back seat, and give the driver the address of the animal shelter. In fifteen minutes, I’ll be back in my cozy little apartment above the storage room, tucked in with a good book and a cup of insanity-reducing chamomile tea.
And when I wake up tomorrow, it will be a new day, shiny and fresh with no head-spinning romance in it.
“Except for the part where you and Tristan are going to be pretending to be in love for several months,” I mutter, not caring if the driver thinks I’m crazy.
I probably am, but nuts or not, there’s no turning back now.
Chapter 3
From the texts of Tristan Hunter
and Deacon Hunter
Deacon: Just checking to make sure you got home safe, sound, and with no Kim-Kahn-induced battle scars. Tap me back when you get the chance.
Tristan: I’m home. The safe and sound part is debatable.
Deacon: Shit. You talked to her, didn’t you? After I warned you not to. What happened to listening to words of wisdom from your oldest brother?
Tristan: I listened. She’s the one who came over to talk to me.
Right after Zoey begged me to hide her from her ex-boyfriend, who turned out to be Kim’s new boyfriend.
Deacon: No shit?
Tristan: No shit. And then one thing led to another, and I ended up making out with Zoey at the bar and telling Kim that Zoey and I were engaged.
Deacon: Oh fuck.
Tristan: Yeah, that pretty much sums it up. So now Zoey and I are fake engaged until after the New Year, when Kim and her new guy head back to Australia.
Deacon: You realize that’s insane, right?
Tristan: Oh yeah. Completely insane. I offered to let Zoey fake dump me, so at least she could save face, but she didn’t want to go that route. So, I guess I need to swing into Jillian’s on the Square before work tomorrow and get her a ring.
Deacon: And somehow you’ve got Dad and the rest of them convinced that you’re the sanest man in the family. That’s a solid con you’ve got going on there, Tris.
Tristan: Pride makes a madman of the best of us.
I just hope Zoey and I can get through this with our friendship intact.
Deacon: Yeah, she’s a sweet girl.
Tristan: And incredible at her job and amazing with animals and people and a complete professional in every way. I don’t know what I’d do without her.
Deacon: So does this mean the kiss was awful?
Or that the kiss was so good you’re reminding yourself why you can’t have a fling with the person you depend on to keep your work life running smoothly?
Tristan: Door number two…
Deacon: Oh man, you really are in trouble.
Tristan: Tell me about it.
I’ve been sitting here for an hour, staring at my phone, trying to convince myself to text her and call the whole thing off.
Deacon: But you can’t. Because you want an excuse to kiss her again.
Tristan: Because I want to prove to Kim that I’m not the pathetic wreck of a person she dumped on his ass a year and a half ago. That’s what this is about, Deacon. Zoey and I are just friends and coworkers—that’s all we’ve ever been, and that’s all we’re ever going to be.
Deacon: Why? She’s beautiful, sweet, hard-working, apparently a dynamite kisser.
You got something against freckles or something?
Tristan: No, I don’t have a thing against freckles.
I like freckles, especially on her…
But it’s not going to happen. It can’t.
Even if Zoey were interested in me in that way—which she’s not—we work together. I don’t want to get into a relationship with someone who depends on me for her paycheck. That’s creepy, and I don’t want to be a creep.
Deacon: But a fake engagement with your subordinate is A-Okay.
Tristan: Fine. Point taken. I’ll text her and call it off.
Deacon: Sure you will…
Tristan: I�
�ve really missed your smug side, you know? I’m so glad you’re retired and are going to be around all the time, making sure none of us have to do without big-brotherly condescension in our lives ever again.
Deacon: I’m not smug, buddy. I’ve just been there. Chemistry is like toothpaste—once it’s out of the tube, it’s not going back in. Fake relationship, real relationship, or strained relationship because you’re trying to slap a friendly label on something that’s not just-friendly anymore… One way or another, you and Zoey are going to have to deal with the consequences of learning that you like to kiss each other.
Tristan: You’re assuming she feels the same way, but she doesn’t. As soon as we decided on a game plan, she couldn’t get away from me fast enough.
Deacon: All right. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe you’re a shit kisser and she can’t wait to go back to being platonic coworkers as soon as the nightmarish experience of being your fake true love is over.
Tristan: Thanks. I feel so much better.
Deacon: You’re welcome. Feel free to text any time. The twins are away at college, and until I decide what’s next work-wise, I’ve got nothing but free time. And don’t worry—I won’t share your big news with Dad or any of the other gossipmongers around here. Your secret is safe with me.
