I can feel his eyes weighing on me and realize I’ve had an entire conversation with myself in my head that he hasn’t been privy to. I kinda like that he can’t read me, though, so I don’t share any of my thoughts. Instead, I just sigh heavily and say dramatically, “Okay, fine. I’ll move in with you. You’re such a needy bitch.” I hold back the smile for a split second and then can’t contain it anymore.
The smile is accompanied by a snort of a laugh, completely unladylike, and if Ross was someone I was actually dating, I’d be covering my face and pinching my nose to get it to stop. But he’s not, so I don’t. I let the piggy-snorting laughs go, enjoying the shocked horror on Ross’s face.
“Oh, my God, never do that again, Vi. That’s worse than fingernails on a chalkboard!” I snort big and loud on purpose at that and then giggle when he cringes. He shakes his head. “Well, I guess we’d better pack your shit.”
And that’s that. I’m moving in with Ross. My fiancé.
* * *
A few suitcases turn into about half the stuff I own, and that’s just for the first ‘essentials only’ run we do tonight. I just couldn’t choose which of my work clothes to pack for this. And there were my favorite pajamas, and of course, my shampoo and conditioner. This hair of mine needs salon-quality conditioner, or else I end up with a rat’s nest on my head.
What was supposed to be an hour’s work tops stretches out to nearly one in the morning before we take the elevator up to Ross’s—I mean, our—penthouse.
The elevator dings and the door opens, and my heart starts racing against my will. This is real. I’m moving in with Ross Andrews right now.
He picks up my heaviest suitcase from the floor and leads me to the living area, carrying the bag like it’s nothing. “You know, you could have just packed an overnight bag.”
“That was kind of the plan at first,” I reply, following with my two rolling bags. “We can unpack it all tomorrow, though. I’m beat and have an early morning tomorrow.”
“Early tomorrow? It’s Sunday. Isn’t that a day of rest, even for the wicked?” Ross questions me, the implication of my wickedness apparently both an insult and a compliment if I’m correctly decoding the twinkle in his eyes.
I force my shoulders back, challenging him. “Well, normally, yes. But since I’m moving with absolutely zero notice and you rushed me to get my butt in gear tonight, I figured I’d go back for the rest of what I need tomorrow after I unpack this stuff. I want to get this all done before Monday when I’m back in the office.”
See? Reasonable reasons I can’t just laze around the house all day tomorrow with a loungewear-clothed Ross.
Oh, God! I bet he wears grey sweatpants and nothing else when he’s sitting around. He’s definitely the type to do that.
And again, my girly bits try to tell me that’s not so bad. But it is. So bad . . . so, so very bad.
“All right, then. If we’re getting up early, I guess we’d better call it a night.” He disappears down the hallway with two of my bags, assuming I’ll follow him along like a dog. I root my feet to the floor and call after him.
“Where are you taking my things? Guest bedroom?” I cross my fingers on both hands and wish I could cross my toes, but they’re too short and stubby to do that.
I hear his answer, but it’s too mumbled to figure out what he said. Steeling my nerves, I decide this isn’t the battle to die on and trace his steps down the hall . . . to his bedroom.
He’s already in the walk-in closet, setting my bag along the back wall. He turns, taking the one remaining bag from my hand. “Why are you putting my stuff here? Don’t you have a guest bedroom?”
He rolls his eyes. “Of course I do. But I also have a family who questions the validity of this relationship, and each of them has a key to the front door. If you think Courtney isn’t going to ‘pop by’ within twenty-four hours of finding out we’re living together to check the status of my closet and where your toothbrush is, you’re an idiot. And I know for a fact that you’re not.”
Huh, that was almost a compliment. I guess we’re making progress. I walk back out to the bedroom and he follows me this time.
“Okay, I concede that Courtney is nosy as fuck and will definitely do some spying, but I think we need some ground rules for this to work.”
Ross opens his hands wide. ‘Ladies first,’ he seems to be saying.
“I’m not sleeping with you,’ I blurt out. Ross’s eyebrows jump up his forehead. “No, I mean literally . . . I’m not sleeping in the same bed with you.” I pause, “And also, I’m not sleeping with you.”
His lips spread wide, showing off that cocky smirk. “Funny that as far as ground rules go, the first thing to come to your mind is fucking me. Maybe you still have a little bit of that crush after all?”
“No.” I can feel the embarrassment burning bright and hot in my belly because I know he caught me. He’s right, one hundred percent. There might be a spark of that crush left, but it’s buried under years of experience with players like Ross, both my own and my friends’, and I won’t make that mistake.
“Counter. I’m sleeping in my bed because it’s my bed. If you choose to sleep on the couch over there” —he points across the room to a tufted leather sofa— “that’s your choice. Personally, couch sleeping for months on end wouldn’t appeal to me much when there’s a perfectly good bed right there.”
I look from the couch to the bed to Ross. His face is straight as can be, no hint of a bluff, and I realize this is his business face. Because this is a business negotiation.
The silence draws out, tense on my part and apparently cool as a cucumber on Ross’s part. Seriously, sleeping next to this man, again? How am I supposed to get any sleep at all when half the time I’m in his presence, my ovaries seem to be dancing to Mi Gente on repeat?
I roll my eyes. “Fine. We can sleep in the same bed. Probably better if anyone asks questions about your snoring, anyway. But you’d better stay on your side. No midnight snuggles or morning wood grinding.” I make circles in the air around my butt, indicating that no part of him should be touching me while we sleep.
He dips his chin in agreement. “To your second point, we are going to be married, Vi. And no wife of mine, fake or real, is going to cheat on me. Nor am I a cheater. So for the duration of this arrangement, we will not date other people or fuck other people.”
“Agree,” I say easily because neither of us wants to be made a fool of by the paparazzi catching us with someone else. That’d ruin the whole arrangement and definitely leave us unable to end this gracefully.
“So I’m open to casual sex if you are.” I start to argue and he holds up a hand to silence me. “But if not, we’re adults and we have needs. Needs that we can meet on our own.” His voice is deeper, gravelly, and it’s hitting me in all the right places.
Wrong! I mean, the wrong places!
“So what do you suggest? We make a schedule for our ‘alone times’?” I do the air-quote thing with my fingers. “Or do we use a signal like in college? Like if there’s a sock on the bathroom door, leave me alone?”
Fire burns in his eyes. “Vi, if you put a sock on that doorknob, I don’t know if there’s a lock in existence that’d keep me on the other side of that door. And if I did manage to stay out, you can trust that I’d be jacking off while I strain my ears for even the slightest moan from you.”
Well, holy shit. Ross isn’t exactly dirty talking, but damn if that doesn’t sound sexy as hell. I can picture us on either side of the door, only the inch of solid wood separating us as we both pleasure ourselves.
I swallow thickly to wet my dry throat and lick my lips. Ross’s eyes follow the movement. “Okay, so we’ll just go discreet on that. No schedule, no signal, just whenever you need to . . .” My voice is too quiet, too weak, and trails off as he reaches up to push a lock of hair behind my ear.
He’s touching me, not as a show for someone to see us but seemingly just because he wanted to.
He
smiles, and I look for the arrogance, the assuredness that he got me, but it’s missing. It seems like a genuine smile, maybe? “I’m going to get ready for bed, Chickie.”
The nickname kills any kind thoughts I might’ve been having about his improved teasing nature.
He likes fucking with your head as much as anything else.
He disappears into the bathroom, though I swear I see him adjusting himself as he turns away from me. Maybe I’m not the only one being affected by that sexy teasing he was doing.
I wander back into the huge closet and dig around in my suitcases to find my PJs. These are my favorites, silky and luxurious. They were a treat to myself after a particularly successful and stressful design install. As an additional bonus, they’re sexy without being overt. Just a spaghetti-strapped cami and flutter-leg boy shorts. If Ross is going to tease me, I’m going to tease him right back. It’s what we’ve always done, so why would it be any different now?
You’re playing with fire, the angel on my shoulder warns. But the adjacent devil is dancing a jig. Show him who’s got chicken legs now!
The bathroom door opens and Ross appears in black pajama pants . . . and nothing else. The wide, chiseled pecs I woke up against are back, covered in a light dusting of dark curls that highlight the hills and valleys of his muscles. His arms are ripped, and through the thin material, I can see a long, thick bulge running down his left thigh.
Shit. Looks like I wasn’t the only one with the idea of sexy pajamas. But two can play that game.
“Bathroom’s all yours,” Ross offers as he walks to the bed. I can’t help but study the flex of his ass in the pants, but I catch myself doing it and make a run for the bathroom, closing the door a little too hard.
I look at the girl in the mirror. My eyes are bright, my cheeks flushed, and my hair a little messy from whipping my head back and forth at dinner from the verbal warfare we endured.
How did I end up here?
But I know the answer to that one. Papa. This is all for him, and to make him happy, I can get through this night and many more with Ross. It’s not even that bad. It’s not like he’s some ugly monster or a jerk who expects me to wait on him hand and foot.
He did do that whole ‘sit’ thing before dinner, though, I remind myself. But honestly, it was a test, a prank like we’ve pulled a thousand times, so I’m going to let that go as nothing more than an attempt at a point in his favor. I turned it around, though. And there will be plenty more chances for us both to goad each other like old times, but also to make everyone believe this is real.
Resolved, I pull my clothes off, folding them neatly. I pull the pink cami over my head, refusing to admit, even to myself, that my nipples are stiff and tender because of Ross. I repeat the same denial when I realize that my arousal has soaked through my panties. Guess I’ll have to go commando because fresh undies are in my suitcase, and I’m not walking back in there to get them because that would be way too obvious.
I pee, wash my hands, and brush my teeth. Before I open the door, I take a deep, steadying breath. And then another.
This is not real. I can do this. This is not real. I can do this.
In the bedroom, Ross is sprawled out on one side of the bed. His side, which I guess makes the other side mine. He’s stretched out in all his masculine glory, his bare feet crossed casually and his cute outie belly button topping the thicker happy trail of hair that runs down past his waistband.
Not that I’m looking.
“Well, you certainly know how to pack for moving into a new home,” Ross says, and in his pajama pants I see a heavy twitch. “I’m looking forward to this more and more by the moment.” He switches to a dry, documentary-style voice. “Night one. Subject is combative initially but quickly sees reason. Forecast for future successful interactions seems likely.” His report of our evening makes me realize that he’s right. This is night one of many to come.
I pretend like I don’t know what he’s talking about with the commentary on my PJs and ignore the attempt at a joke, too caught up in his proximity to come up with a comeback. “Goodnight, Ross,” I force myself to say, my body pulsing with need as I cover myself with the sheet.
He pulls the sheet the rest of the way over my shoulders, his hand resting like a burning warmth on top of the sheet when he’s done, and I can feel his intense gaze staring at the side of my face.
Steeling myself inside even as my pussy starts to throb, I turn my face to look up at him. “Yes?”
“We’re going to get through this, Violet. It’s going to be okay . . . for your family and mine, for you and me. I promise.” I wasn’t expecting him to say that. Not at all. He’s vowing this to me on pure faith and willingness to do whatever it takes. Some tiny worry I didn’t even know I had because I’d been suppressing it eases.
“Thanks, Ross.” I roll back over, settling in to sleep. “Goodnight,” I repeat, and this time, he answers in kind.
He lies down, his back toward mine but a solid foot of space between us in the king-size bed. “Geoffrey . . . lights out.”
“Goodnight, sir,” the computer voice says, and the lights fade to darkness. In that inky blackness, I can hear him shift and try to get comfortable, obviously aroused by what he saw and probably as confused as I am by the roller coaster of the night.
For my part, I lie still, forcing myself to breathe deeply and not think of what’s right behind me. Because the more I do, the more I wonder how I’m going to survive this fake engagement without either killing Ross . . . or fucking him into a coma.
It’s all going to depend on which comes first. Or who.
That damned devil on my shoulder smugly answers, “Me. I come first.”
The crazy thing is, I bet that’s true. I bet Ross would be gentlemanly enough to make me come first. And that’s exactly what I’m thinking about as sleep finally takes me under.
Chapter 11
Ross—Monday—12 Days Until the Wedding
“I want to talk to you.”
Looking up from my computer, where I’ve been pounding away at my keyboard, I see Courtney standing in my office doorway in her ‘power stance’, her eyes fiery and set so fiercely she could melt a lesser man.
Thankfully, I’m tougher than most so her gaze doesn’t faze me in the least. In fact, it looks like the bell ringing on round two with my littlest sister.
Let the games begin . . . again. She’s nothing if not persistent, though I guess she’d have to be to make it as the baby in a family like ours.
“Come on in,” I reply nonchalantly, shaking out my hands. “I haven’t typed this fast since the two hours before my junior year poli-sci paper was due. Kaede’s out picking up his new tablet, so if you need to coordinate something with him, I’d say the best idea is to send him an email.”
It’s a calculated move to set her on edge. I’m well aware she’s not here to schedule a meeting and doesn’t need to see my assistant, but in making it look like there’s nothing unusual going on, I reiterate that my relationship with Violet is the new status quo. Nothing to see here, just two lovebirds in love.
“I’m not here to talk to K-dawg,” Courtney says, her voice just barely softening when she uses Kaede’s nickname. I’ve suspected for awhile that she’s had a bit of a schoolgirl crush on my best friend. Luckily for them both, she’s never made a move on him, and he would never. Bro code all the way between us.
She shuts the door behind her, giving us some privacy, and I know she’s come armed for war. I’m curious whether she’s going to pull out the tears like she did when she was younger or if she’ll go with the cutting comments she’s learned at Dad’s elbow since she started working for him.
“I’m here to talk to you. What the hell is going on? Dad damn near chops your balls off because you’re gallivanting all over town with random pussy, and days later, you show up with a fiancée. That’d be suspicious enough, but then the fiancée happens to be Violet Russo, the girl you literally tortured for half her life. S
omething’s rank in Denmark, and it’s not hard to figure out that, as usual, it’s you.”
Can I get cutting comments for one hundred, Alex?
“Court, we’ve already gone through this. Yes, Violet and I have a rather checkered past, but things are different now. We are different now, all grown up and whatnot. I need you to just be happy for me because she makes me happy.”
Her eyes narrow, and I can almost feel the x-ray scan she’s subjecting me to. I need to wrap this up because it’s too risky to rehash the same shit over and over. Too many reruns of Law & Order have taught me that. Courtney might as well be the police asking me to repeat myself again, and then again, so she can look for holes, things that don’t line up, and any small changes in my story. “If that’s everything, I need to get this proposal ready for the board meeting before Violet arrives. I’m going to be too distracted once she shows up.”
Courtney sighs but at least abandons her hardline attack enough to sit down in a chair opposite my desk. She might be shorter than me, but she’s got one hell of a looming presence when she wants to be a pit bull. “Fine. Why is she coming here? You going to parade her around the office and introduce her to all the alphabet suits?”
It’s not fine, and I know it. She’s only rope-a-doping, not surrendering, but I’ll take that for now. I ignore just how right she is about my main motives at having Violet stop by too.
“She offered to give my office a little refresh, so she’s coming by to see my space and take some measurements,” I say airily.
Truth be told, this was one of our rather genius ideas yesterday as we unpacked and moved the rest of Violet’s things to the penthouse. We need time together in public to sell this, and we’re both busy people. She can’t just start stopping by for lunch randomly and keep up her work-hard pace, nor can I cut out of the office and meet her all over the city while she’s seeing clients. A minor update to my space gives her the chance to literally put her mark on me, my home, my office, my life, and no one can refute the importance of that.
My Big Fat Fake Wedding Page 13
