by Elise Faber
Sera was staring down at her phone then almost dropped it when Tate walked in, looking ridiculously sexy in a pair of navy khakis and a burgundy sweater. He closed the distance between them and pressed a kiss to her cheek.
“Hi,” he murmured.
A shiver skated down her spine.
“Hi.”
“No,” her mother declared triumphantly, “this is the perfect shade of white for your dress—” She glanced up, eyes widening when she realized Tate had come in while she’d been organza-distracted. “Oh, hello, Tate. It’s so lovely to see you again. My Sera is so lucky to have a man like you in her life.”
He slipped an arm around Sera’s waist, but though the movement was casual, his arm was stiff. “Mrs. Delgado,” he said in greeting, his tone detached, the barest hint of a nod his only deference. But what he followed that up with had her heart skipping a beat. “I’m the lucky one.”
So much warmth in that sentence.
Sera reached down, squeezed the hand at her waist, wanting him to know that she felt the same way. Despite the inauspicious start, despite the deception, she’d really had a great week getting to know Tate.
Sugar’s lips pressed into a flat line, probably biting back some snarky comment about Sera really being the lucky one.
“And actually,” he said. “You can store your samples away. Sera and I have talked, and we’re going to elope.”
Her heart dropped.
They hadn’t talked about eloping.
They’d discussed favorite shows—Desperate Housewives and The Great British Bake-Off for her, Jack Ryan for him. They’d talked favorite colors—blue and blue. They’d even gone down the favorite food, favorite movie, and biggest pet peeve avenues of discussion—pizza and clam chowder, Love Actually and The Godfather, and mouth-breathers and liars, respectively.
But they hadn’t discussed eloping.
Because it had never crossed Sera’s mind.
She’d been planning this wedding for almost thirty years. Her ideas had morphed as she’d grown, the princess wedding of her youth transforming into a barn wedding and then a destination wedding until finally the last few years of experience had convinced her that she wanted a small beachside affair.
A simple altar decorated with flowers—she had a unique triangular-shaped one, dotted with two gatherings of soft pink hydrangeas and sunflowers, pinned to her Pinterest board.
No bridesmaids or groomsmen—it would be too hard to pick just a few of her friends and all of them together would make too big of a bridal party for a beach wedding.
Just her in a simple silk dress, bare feet.
Her groom—hell, who was she kidding, she’d spent a good chunk of the last year imaging Tate standing next to her—holding her hand, staring down at her with warmth in his eyes.
The sun setting. Heartfelt words. The soothing crash of waves.
Not an elopement.
Tate bent and kissed her on her cheek. “Brilliant, right?” he whispered. “Now your mother can’t get involved.” He winked at her, his expression so proud at having solved an issue that had been plaguing Sera over the last week, that she found she couldn’t do anything more than slap on a smile and go along with it.
She rested her head against his shoulder and said, “We sure are!”
Her mother’s expression was classic, and it was almost worth giving up the last piece of her childhood fantasy to see Sugar look so discomfited.
“Wh-when?”
Uh. Good question.
Tate recovered first. “We can’t tell you that,” he said, teasing now. “Or it wouldn’t be an elopement.” He met her eyes. “But, sweetheart, we should go if we’re going to make our dinner reservation.”
She’d planned on staying in the office for a little longer since her inbox was overflowing at the moment, but doing that also meant staying with her mother.
Yeah, no.
She slipped from Tate’s embrace, snagged her purse, and waved goodbye to her mother.
Sugar was still holding a square of white organza as they walked out the door.
Hector was openly staring.
“Don’t let my mother into my office again, okay?” she murmured before giving him some final instructions.
“Got it.” He stood, glanced through the opening, glanced back at her and Tate, then mouthed, “Elope?”
Hector had taken the news of her engagement in stride, but add a potential unplanned wedding, and he was staring at her as though she’d grown two heads. Which probably made her a pathetic sap if even her assistant knew how much she’d mooned over Tate during the months they’d worked together. But Hector followed her on Pinterest, and so he had certainly seen her obsession with all things wedding. It wasn’t a stretch to think he knew how important it was for her to have it live up to everything she’d ever imagined—
Which was neither here nor there at the moment.
More important was the fact that she and Tate liked each other, that they were seeing how things went.
Yup. Those were the only important things.
All the rest of it was . . . organza in a world of silk.
She nodded at Hector.
Tate touched her arm. “Ready?”
“Absolutely,” she told him.
She knew he was talking about dinner, about spending another enjoyable evening together, about continuing to explore the draw between them—because if she’d learned only one thing over the last week, it was how compatible she and Tate were.
Sera also knew Tate wasn’t talking about pushing her dreams aside, that he wasn’t the kind of man to want her to do that.
But . . . this wasn’t a real engagement or marriage.
He was doing her a favor.
And so, what right did she have to demand that he make her silly childhood fantasy come true?
What happened to being open and honest and not hiding parts of yourself? The voice inside her brain that, fittingly, sounded a hell of a lot like Abby.
The voice also wasn’t wrong.
She had committed to not molding herself into what others wanted her to be, transforming into some approximation of herself in order to please them.
But this was different.
Tate didn’t want her to change. He was trying to help her, to save her from the persistence known as Sugar Delgado. And in the grand scheme of things, nothing else mattered. Not letting go of a fantasy of her spouse hiding her engagement ring in a gorgeous chocolate dessert.
Not planning her perfect beach wedding.
Not buying her dream house to raise a family in.
None of it mattered.
Because this was real life, and Sera had to learn how to live in it.
Fourteen
Tate
“Actually,” Sera said as they got to her car. “Do you mind if we skip the dinner reservation and go to one of our places?” She tugged the handle, opened the driver’s side door. “I’m pretty tired.”
“Do you want to reschedule?” he asked, worried about the trace of sadness in her eyes.
Had he overstepped in the office with her mother?
Maybe she wanted a huge affair to prove to everyone they were legit . . . or maybe, and his gut clenched just thinking about it, maybe she wanted to call off their entire sham of an engagement.
She bit her lip, and he clenched his hands into fists in order to not brush a thumb across the bottom one, to slide it free of the white teeth marring it. Or better yet, to kiss her and get that mouth distracted with something a hell of a lot more pleasurable for the both of them.
“No,” she said, pulling him off that train of thought. “I was just thinking that I might prefer DoorDash and watching that new movie on Netflix.”
Tate raised his brow.
He might be a giant nerd, but even he knew what Netflix and Chill was.
“Are you asking—” He shook his head, because—fucking moron—no man in his right mind confirmed that they were going to get Netflix and Chill. They j
ust went with the flow, and if Netflix and Chill happened, it happened. And plus, Sera looked kind of pale. More likely, she was coming down with the flu or something and just wanted to relax.
Which meant Tate should probably stay far away, not risk getting sick when they had a big rollout happening at his company.
But the idea of staying by Sera’s side, of nursing her back to health, was appealing.
Fuck, he was an emotionally stunted moron.
Because this was the first time he’d ever wanted to be with a woman more than his work.
And because that was scary as shit.
Yes, he wanted to take care of Sera. Hell yes, he wanted to do that. He liked her a lot, more than he’d ever liked any woman, ever. Priscilla included. And that should terrify him, have him calling off the sham of an engagement and running as fast as possible in the opposite direction.
But Tate wasn’t terrified.
This thing with Sera felt right.
He wanted to be with her . . . always.
A warning bell blared to life in his mind, telling him he was slipping farther down the rabbit hole that was his and Sera’s relationship, but then all traces of fatigue and sadness faded from her face.
She popped him on the chest. “You were not going to inquire about Netflix and—”
Tate kissed her.
Before she finished the sentence, before he admitted that, yes, his brain was more used to spelling out everything perfectly clear in code and not well-versed in relationships. Before he admitted that he really hoped the invitation to her place or her willingness to go back to his meant that maybe he might get to see her naked soon.
Because, fuck, he needed to see her naked.
“Chill,” she gasped, finishing her sentence when they broke apart, sucking in air.
“Shh,” he said and kissed her again.
Her mouth was everything—sweet and soft and not hesitant in the least. The moment their lips touched, they parted, heated breaths exchanged, slick darts of dancing tongues, his slipping into her mouth only to have hers chase his back. She stepped closer, and his brain threatened to go into sensation overload.
Breasts pillowing against his chest. Fingernails biting into his shoulders. Her pelvis pressing firmly against his cock.
Tate saw stars, felt heat snake up his spine, coat his limbs, his thoughts, his—
A car door slammed in the distance, and they jumped apart like guilty teenagers.
Sera’s cheeks were tinged in red, her lips swollen and wet. The sight was too fucking much, and he leaned down to take her mouth all over again. Only this time, her hand came up, pressed against his lips.
“I think that’s enough for the parking lot,” she said, eyes dancing with mischief. “Also, yes.” A sexy smirk. “I am inviting you back to my place, though not necessarily angling for said Netflix and Chill time. I really am tired, but if there happens to be some Netflixing and some Chilling, then who am I to deny my fake fiancé anything?”
He flicked his tongue out, cock tightening even further when she gasped and so he did it again, loving how her lids fluttered, her body drifting closer to his.
“Fake fiancé?” he asked, lifting her palm away. “I thought we were going straight.”
She snorted. “I didn’t realize we’d gone crooked.”
He groaned.
“Bad, I know,” Sera teased, “but I do love the banter, Conner. I hope you’ll keep giving it to me.”
Tate waggled his brows. “I’ll keep giving you something.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Ew.”
He laughed. “Too far. Noted. So, my place or yours?”
“I thought we were business only?” Sera asked innocently.
Tate nipped her fingertips. How had he ever imagined being able to resist this woman? “Can we admit that I was an idiot?”
“Yes. That we can always do.” Those beautiful blue eyes still danced, though this time with laughter. “So, whose place is closer?”
They spent a few minutes figuring that out—Sera’s was closer—before he pressed a kiss to her cheek, promised to see her there, and turned for his car.
“Tate?”
He stopped, rotated to face her.
“I think it might be safer for you if you rode with me.”
“What?”
She pointed to her temple, mimed a steering wheel. “Me drive you, go together. Me no hit you with my car.”
He snorted and crossed back over to her, drawn to her like a magnet attracted to metal. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”
A non-sequitur to be sure.
But she was.
Especially with the self-satisfied smile tugging up those kiss-swollen lips.
“I think you’ve been concussed,” she said lightly, but her cheeks were red and not from the kiss this time.
“A concussion that’s developed after more than a week?”
“It’s possible.” She shrugged. “I can drive you back to your car tomorrow, if you want.”
He pretended to consider that. “Promise I’ll be safe?”
“Hmm.” A finger tapped her lips. “Hmm. Will you consent to watching the entire new season of The Great British Bake-off?”
A nod. “I don’t have to be into the office tomorrow until eleven.”
“Words a woman lives to hear.” A flash of white. “I promise you’ll be safe. I’ll even let you have a slice of my apple pie that I made in anticipation of Pastry Week.”
“You know what?” he asked, helping her into her car and reaching over to buckle her seat belt.
“What?”
“I thought I was the bigger nerd in this relationship, but I think you just proved me wrong.”
Her hand gripped his shirt when he would have leaned back.
“Is that what this is? A relationship?”
Tate lightly tugged a strand of her hair, admitted what he should have known from the start. He’d never had a chance of keeping his distance from Sera.
“Well, it sure as hell isn’t business.”
Fifteen
Sera
Tate had his hand resting on her thigh as he scrolled through his phone.
He had his hand on her thigh.
And Sera was seriously worried about the whole promising to keep him safe thing because those fingers on her leg, all manly and firm and their heat soaking through the thin cotton of her slacks—
She shifted, knocking his hand off.
Not because she wanted to—she wanted more fingers . . . and without the fabric cock-blocking her—but because of general road safety. She didn’t want to get in an accident because the tip of Tate’s finger was getting close to the motherland.
“What do you feel like?” he asked, not commenting on her auto acrobatics, though the sly curve to his lips told her he’d definitely noticed. “Italian? Mediterranean? Thai?”
“I’ve never met a carb I don’t love, so I vote Thai or Italian.”
He dropped his voice to sinful, though his expression was entirely playful. “Garlic bread?” He waggled his brows.
She giggled, loving that he was like this with her, that he seemed to be forgetting his nerves and awkwardness more often than not, that these moments of joking and banter were growing more frequent.
“My panties are wet just thinking about it.”
Sera’s stomach clenched hard. That was not a nice-girl-Sera joke, not a joke she might have ever dared say aloud.
And if she hadn’t felt so comfortable with Tate, that might-have would have been a never. As in, she would have never said it outside her own brain.
But Tate didn’t chastise her, didn’t make a snide comment about ladylike behavior.
Instead, when she stopped at a red light and dared to peek at him, Sera found his eyes had gone hot. Molten blue flames that threatened to incinerate her from the inside out.
He pocketed his cell. “You want me to do something about those panties?”
She swallowed hard, heat exploding fr
om her center, burning through her and making her thighs clench, her breasts tingle and ache. She sucked in a breath, accelerated when the light went green, mentally calculating how long it would take to get to the house.
“Did you order food?”
Brows drawn down, he shook his head.
“Good.” She returned her gaze to the road. “Because . . . I do,” she murmured. “I do want you to do something about them.”
His breath caught, no words filling the air between them, but not because he didn’t want her, not because he was trying to hold on to that just platonic portion of their agreement.
No, the girls were right.
Tate did want her.
Despite the quiet, she could feel his need, his desire coating the air. And she wanted him just as much.
Then his hand dropped to her thigh again. Squeezed.
It took every bit of her focus to not drive them off the road.
She really wished she lived closer.
Five minutes and thirty-two seconds.
That was exactly how much longer it took for Sera to get them back to her house, to pull into her garage, close the door behind her, and turn off the ignition.
They reached for each other at the same time, her grabbing for the collar of his shirt, gripping it tightly, him bringing both hands to her waist and lifting her up and over the console.
She gasped at finding herself in his lap then immediately gasped again when he shoved his seat back, giving them more space.
Their mouths found one other, molding together, lips parting, tongues sliding home. A groan that she wasn’t certain if it came from her throat or his. Searching fingers and hard against soft.
As in his hard was against her soft.
“Fuck,” he murmured, breaking the kiss, dragging his lips along her jaw, her throat. “You taste like—”
Sera loved his compliments, but she needed his mouth more.
She wove her hands into his hair and tugged his head up. Thankfully, he didn’t fight her, just kissed her until her lungs burned and stars flashed behind her eyes.
“Inside,” he panted when they finally gave into the need to breathe.
She started to nod but didn’t get very far because Tate laced an arm around her back, cementing them together as he popped open the door and got out of her car . . . or tried to anyway, because he was still buckled in.
