Still, it’s a terrible idea—I’m literally falling asleep on my feet, and I’m bound to say something stupid.
“I don’t want to impose on your day.”
He smiles at me. “It’s not an imposition, it’s an invitation.”
“Locke…” I start, but my voice drifts off. I’m too tired to protest and I don’t want to, but I feel like I should.
His gaze darkens further until frustration ripples across his normally placid face. “Why are you always so stubborn when I try to help you?”
Because I like it too much.
But I can’t say that.
“Fine,” I relent. “Lead the way.”
It’s before noon on a Friday, and other than a few Pilates-toned moms pushing strollers down the bumpy sidewalks, we have the whole street to ourselves. We turn without any more discussion, and Locke leads us toward a mid-sized apartment building with vines scaling the wall by the front gate. I bet in the summer flowers bloom on the vines, but for now the vines cling to the gate with a dried, skeletal grasp. Winter gets the best of us all.
Locke holds open the front gate for me, and we climb a set of narrow stairs. At the top, he fishes keys out of his pocket and fits one into the lock of a well-worn door. And then—oh, god—we’re inside.
My greedy eyes roam over the open living area, and I drink in the minimalist space, thirsty, thirsty, thirsty for more. Weak morning sunlight spills through a wide picture window in the living room and falls onto the armrest of a comfortable-looking leather couch. From the couch’s soft patina and the stack of books piled onto the side table, it looks like Locke spends a lot of time here. My heart twinges in my chest.
This is him.
He’s in every spare detail of the place, from the rustic brick wall that boasts a fireplace and a modest wall-mounted TV to the cell phone charger plugged in by his couch. He’s in the half-empty glass of water using an opened copy of The New Yorker as a coaster. He’s in the soft, rumpled blanket draped across the back of the couch.
Tears fill my eyes again, but Locke misreads my overwhelm as pain or exhaustion.
“Hey, sit down,” he says. “Take a load off.”
“Okay, yeah. You mind if I just rest for a minute?”
“That’s what we’re here for.”
“Right.” I shrug out of my coat and exchange it for the blanket, pulling the soft fabric around my shoulders as I slump onto the couch. I stretch my body lengthwise across the cushions, and the couch accepts me like a selfless lover. With my cheek on the well-used armrest, the air is rich with the scent of worn leather and books.
Just the act of getting off my feet makes me sigh in relief, and I snuggle the thick, hand-knitted blanket around my face. The soft wool releases the smell of Locke’s cologne, and my stomach dips.
The owner of the blanket pauses at the edge of the couch and studies me quietly. He’s pulled off the hat he wore on our walk over, leaving his hair ruffled and soft. My fingers ache to touch it, to wind through the dark strands and pull him close.
“You want something more comfortable to wear?” Locke asks in a thick voice.
My heart skips a beat.
Me in Locke’s clothes.
Fuuuuuck me.
Yes.
My chest feels tight, and my throat constricts as I decline. “I’m okay in this.” I force a smile. “Everything is pajamas if you’re committed enough to sleep.”
His grin tugs straight down to my clit. “If you say so.” He pauses for another minute and then drops onto the edge of the coffee table, where he braces his elbows on his knees and steeples his hands under his chin and stares at me like I’m beautiful.
What do I do with this?
How can I possibly pretend I don’t notice the way his eyes roam my face and fall to my lips? How can I shield myself from the wanting that threatens to eat me alive?
I fly into my default mode, joking to ease the desire burning hot in my chest. “Sorry again for being a wuss. This is what happens when you’re thirty and you pretend you’re still eighteen.”
A knowing smirk crosses Locke’s face. “Were you a wild one at eighteen?”
“Not really. But definitely more energetic than this.” Time slows down and makes my voice syrupy and soft. “I was fun in different ways.” A yawn pierces my statement as fatigue threatens to pull me under.
Locke’s earnest voice rasps against my ear. “You’re still fun now.”
“Except when one late night takes me down.”
“Was it worth it, though?”
I give him a sleepy smile, and in the moments before I drift off, I hear myself say, “Oh, Locke. Of course it was.” And then, because exhaustion breaks down all my defenses and leaves me without any good sense, “You’re always worth it.”
I wake up disoriented and a little sweaty under Locke’s wool blanket. The steady shine of streetlights in a dark night replaces the watery morning light which fell through Locke’s window when we first arrived. Other than the glow of the hood light in the kitchen, the open space is dark and quiet.
What time is it?
I slide on my glasses and fumble for the phone in my purse, which I’d left on the floor beside the couch. It’s ten-fifteen and I have three missed texts from Molly.
So much for my quick nap. That was a full-blown sleep, so deep it was dreamless.
I rub my hand across my face and stretch, assessing the damage. My muscles are a little stiff from lying in one position, but the sting from my knee has lessened by a few degrees.
I glance around, suddenly self-conscious, but Locke’s not here. I drop my phone onto the coffee table and pad quietly through the apartment, simultaneously hungry to discover more but also feeling guilty for snooping. I push past the tiny bathroom with black hexagon tiles arranged on the floor and find the only other door in the place.
“Locke?” I call softly. I rap the back of my knuckles against the wood, but there’s no answer. The door’s slightly ajar, so I push it open further and step inside.
A pile of blankets on the low, modern bed nearly obscures Locke’s form, but his dark hair pops against the starch white of his pillowcase. The glow of a single bedside lamp traces his prominent cheekbones and his plush lips, so perfectly-formed and seductive. His slow, steady breath betrays his own exhaustion, and I smile with no danger of him seeing. He’s asleep, and it feels like another experience we’ve shared, even though we were in separate rooms on different pieces of furniture. Last night got to him, too.
I spin away from him as my pulse climbs in my chest. A few button-down shirts and pants hang in his open closet, with a pile of sweaters stacked on the shelves. The only furniture in the room, other than the bed and table, is a simple wooden desk and a desk chair. A box from a food sensitivity testing company sits on the desk next to Locke’s work computer, which is plugged in but turned off.
I creep forward, and my foot snags on the edge of Locke’s comforter, snatching my balance.
Shit!
I pitch forward and brace myself to hit the floor and land on my ass for the second time today. Instead, I land on his lap.
Locke startles awake, sitting up in bed so quickly the covers drop off his body, revealing his naked chest. Broad, strong shoulders give way to firm pecs and ridged abs, all those interesting muscles cast into contrast by the highlight and shading of his single lamp.
“Greer?”
Busted.
I straighten my arms, my face somewhere around his crotch and the conspicuous bulge under the covers.
Oh my god.
A sharp breath hisses in through my teeth and heat licks through my chest, creeping toward my cheeks. “I’m so sorry,” I blurt out. I yank my gaze from the strong muscles of his chest. “I was, uhh, just checking in.”
Not snooping. Definitely no snooping here.
“I’ll be back in the living room,” I mutter.
I bolt before he can stop me, then perch on the edge of the couch and put my hands on my knees
to draw in deep breaths through my nose.
Locke emerges from his bedroom a minute later, clad in a simple, white T-shirt that strains across his chest and a pair of gray joggers that look soft enough to touch. They highlight the powerful muscles of his quads and glutes, flattering his form in a way that makes it hard to look anywhere else.
Locke pauses in the dining area just at the edge of the living room and leans his hip against the kitchen table.
I twist my hands together in my lap. “I didn’t mean to wake you,” I say.
“It’s okay.” He rubs a hand over his chest and shoots me a sheepish grin. “I think we both knocked out there.”
“Yeah.” Don’t be awkward, Greer. Don’t be awkward. I wave at the room. “I like your place. More minimal than your desk at work.”
A grin tugs my lips as I think of the familiar clutter of his desk—the flask that may or may not hold a slug of whiskey for Friday afternoons, the cone of a paper bullhorn with Director emblazoned on the side, the squishable rubber duckie with devil horns.
I tilt my head at him, hoping for an explanation.
“Half the crap on my desk is there from other people.”
“Oh.” I bite back my embarrassment. Other people have bought him gifts. I suddenly feel useless and stupid. What have I done for him?
“I told you,” he continues, “I don’t need stuff.” His voice lowers like a confession. “I’m not here for the things.”
What are you here for? my body begs me to ask. I want to know, but I don’t, because what if I’m not one of those things?
“Me neither,” I whisper back. It’s true, but it feels dangerous to say. Like I’m showing him a slice of my heart.
My phone buzzes from the coffee table and interrupts the thick, silent moment.
I wince and reach for it. Another text from Molly.
I stand and shove the phone in my purse, then start folding the blanket so I have something to do with my hands. “I should go,” I say.
“It’s late, Greer. You can stay until morning if you want.”
Of course I want to.
I shake my head and set the folded blanket on the back of the couch. “My roommate’s looking for me. I told her I’d help her pack for her trip.”
He lifts a dark eyebrow. “She’s going somewhere?”
“Hawaii.” I shrug. “Her family’s from there, and she goes back for a few weeks around Christmas each year.”
“Then you get the place to yourself.”
I nod. “And I plan to make the most of it. I’ll be throwing a no-pants party for one.”
Oh, lord. What the hell is wrong with me?
I’m no longer tired, so I don’t even have that as an excuse. Just my stupid, confused heart and the memory of Locke’s body under mine, my subconscious sabotaging me.
“You’ll have to tell me how it goes.” Is that…amusement…in his eyes? Or arousal?
“I didn’t mean it that way,” I mumble.
“What way, Greer?” Definitely a smirk on his lips. “I was talking about the packing.”
Right. Right.
I slide into my coat and zip it to my chin. “Okay, well, thanks again for everything,” I say. Then I dip out the front door without looking back.
Whatever moment we just shared is over. I’ve broken it, and maybe I’ve saved myself just in time.
14
Locke
Monday is my new favorite day of the week because it’s the day I get to stop waiting to see Greer and get to actually see her. Especially after this weekend. I kick off the cold and stomp into the WanderWell building early on Monday morning, the bright walls snapping away the last traces of my exhaustion. The crisp air dissolves on my skin the moment I enter the heat and the hum of the third-floor offices.
My mind buzzes with thoughts of Greer and the way she looked as she fell asleep on my couch last week, even though I know I need to focus on the day in front of me. I checked my work calendar last night to prepare for the week ahead, but when I rouse my computer now, a new entry appears on my schedule. A nine a.m. one-on-one with Damien Price. Beautiful.
I groan inwardly as Damien materializes behind Greer’s empty desk chair. He places his large hands on her chair as I imagine he must have placed them on her shoulders to rub her neck.
I would have. I would have loved her and held her and watched her melt into putty beneath my palms. I would never have let her go.
My jaw tightens, and I’m overwhelmed with the urge to kiss the woman who’s dominated my thoughts for the last year. It’s not like the idea hasn’t crossed my mind before, but the desire’s changed shape and become a real possibility. One that I wish I could act on now instead of facing down the man who had that same privilege before me.
“You ready for our meeting?” Damien asks.
Do I have a choice? “Sure.”
“Let’s use the team room.”
Because the open offices aren’t conducive to privacy, WanderWell scattered a few private meeting rooms throughout the floor. I follow Damien toward a room in the back corner of our floor, then climb onto one of the modern, wire-framed stools pulled to the counter-height table. An abstract mural splashes over the back wall of the room, and the fluorescent light whines overhead.
Damien arranges himself across from me, not so much sitting in his chair as leaning himself against it. Is the move a power play?
I keep my thoughts to myself and make small talk for a minute because, despite my growing distaste for my new boss, I do still want to keep my job. But then Damien palms his spiral-bound notebook and flips to a page of notes.
“So, Locke.”
“Yes?” I try not to grit my teeth.
“The San Francisco team wants you.” It’s a statement more than a question, and I freeze as I wait for him to continue. “I’ve talked to David and Curt about the opportunity there. As far as I can tell, you’re the frontrunner in the race. I think you should seriously pursue it.”
“Oh yeah?” My body tenses with suspicion. Why’s Damien suddenly on Team Locke?
“I don’t want to lose you from the group here, but you’ve got the right credentials, and San Francisco could use you.” He lifts his gaze from the notebook to meet mine. I can’t read the expression flickering in the depths of his icy eyes. “There are no other internal candidates, Locke. No one with your history at WanderWell. I’ll be happy to put in a recommendation for you. Tip the scales in your favor.”
It’s hard to breathe for a minute, the opportunity materializing in front of me, more and more solid. “That would be great,” I say quickly. “Thank you.”
He nods and flips his notebook closed. “Anything else we need to discuss this morning?”
Nothing I can say without getting fired. “Let me think on it and get back to you.”
We stand to leave the room, and Damien beats me to the door. He holds it open for me, and as I walk through, he tosses off a question so casually contrived that I stop in my tracks. “Did Greer make it home safely last week?”
Seriously? My hands curl into fists by my sides. That’s what this is about. Not my job or my life or what’s best for the company. It’s about keeping me away from Greer. Who he dumped.
The unfairness of it stings. He doesn’t want her for himself, but he’s perfectly content to keep everyone else away from her too.
Asshole.
I can see exactly why Greer didn’t want to show weakness in front of him—why she took me up on this fake date agreement—and I hate that he made her feel like she wasn’t enough.
Slow down, Locke.
I force myself to take a deep breath. I’m letting myself to speculate and get worked up, but I can’t afford to lose control around him.
I smooth on a smile and nod as I sail past. “She’s perfect.”
She’s also here, and the sight of the back of her head makes my chest feel a little lighter. Today she’s wearing a pale pink sweater with elaborate knitwork down the sleeves, and her ha
ir is back to its usual glossy shine.
Instead of returning to my desk, I approach Greer’s chair. “Hey, Sleeping Beauty,” I call softly.
Greer looks up at me and pantomimes sleeping and snoring, and I drop my shoulders in relief. She bolted on Friday after she fell face-first into my lap, and I spent the last two days worried that I’d somehow done something wrong.
“Top of the morning to you,” Greer returns. Her cheerful volley reveals that whatever awkwardness transpired is behind us. We’re still cool.
I work my wallet out of my front pocket and slide out a photograph, which I present to her with a flourish. “For you.”
Her eyes light as she inspects the image, and a smile creeps across her gorgeous lips. “You got it printed?”
I lean close to her and look over her shoulder at the photograph of me and Greer smiling beside Orion’s masked form. We look good—my arm draped around Greer’s waist and her eyes bright, the stacks of books a colorful backdrop to our happiness. My hands burn to hold her now, but this is not the place.
Still, I can feel Damien’s gaze on us, hot and judgmental. Let him stare.
“Figured it would look good in your business card holder. Spruce up the business cards.”
“I knew you were the brains of the operation for a reason,” she teases.
She leans forward, and I try not to notice how her breasts brush the edge of her desk as she arranges the photo in front of her stack of cards. “Perfect.”
“You know what else is perfect?”
Her eyes sweep to mine, suddenly big and still, and I realize that my words have come out husky and thick. She pauses like whatever I say next might answer some question she hasn’t asked.
But I can’t say what I really want, which is you.
“Coffee.” I clear my throat and brighten my voice. “I’m going to grab some. Can I get any for you?”
The Fake Date Agreement (Awkward Arrangements Book 1) Page 8
