The Real Deal

I look up from the screen. A mouthwatering image of blueberries folded inside a sugar-dusted crepe stares at me from the antique bureau. A mouthwatering woman is in the bathroom, getting ready for bed. I’m parked on a love seat wedged against the bay window that looks out over the spacious grounds. Briefly, I consider Xavier’s question. Is April a doll? More like a babe. A fox.




I sit up straighter. This information is getting interesting. I tap a quick reply—asking, Yeah?—as a spray of water grows louder, and strong. That’s not the sink faucet. She’s in the shower. Ah hell. She’s in the shower, which means she’s naked. Which means I now officially understand for the first time why people choose to be invisible. Yep. Because if I could, I absolutely would pick it now, open the door, slip into the bathroom, and watch her soap up her naked flesh. April could use it; so could I. Part of me knows I should shut down this conversation. But another part is too curious to let it go.




I stare at his message. Lying cad. But I’m not lying about anything important, I remind myself. You’re also not her boyfriend, idiot.




A kernel of jealousy whips through me as I flop back on the love seat, reading the last note. But as the soundtrack of April’s shower drums through the room, I tell myself I have no right to feel envy over men she might date down the road. April’s a client, and that’s all she is. The water in the bathroom slows to a trickle, so I need to shut down this exchange stat.




For the next few days, I need to convince her parents I’m that guy.





Chapter Ten

April

Ten minutes earlier





I toss the phone on the vanity across from the sink, and it clatters along the marble. Why did I get caught up in Claire’s betting pool? In the reflection, I glance at the door behind me, leading into the bedroom. Behind that door is an antique bureau; a king-size bed covered in a pristine white comforter; a photo of ripe, red strawberries on the nightstand; and, most notable of all, an outrageously handsome man. With stubble, and wild dark eyes, and ink on his biceps, and a dirty grin on his face.

How am I going to get in that bed with that man? I cast a side-eye glance to the shower and heave a sigh.

A girl’s got to do what a girl’s got to do.

Personally, I find shower O’s a bit challenging, and not always worth the effort. You have to find just the right angle, and then you have to diddle yourself standing up. That’s just weird, right? If I had a showerhead with ten speeds, it might be a different story. But this bathroom doesn’t have one, and if it did, you can bet I wouldn’t slide something between my legs that might have been used by others.

I crank on the stream and give the fingers-only style the old college try. Maybe it’s because Theo’s in the room mere feet away, or perhaps it’s because Theo is insanely hot in a criminally handsome way. Whatever the reason, my fingers slip-slide easily. Over, up, down. Heat rises in me, spreads over my skin, thrums through my body. I move faster, fly farther. And I’m on the cusp of getting there. Right there. A moan slips past my lips. A heavy ache pulses between my legs, and heat climbs up my thighs. I press my forehead to the tile while hot water streams down my back.

I shudder, then bite my lip, silencing the sounds I want to make, the name I want to moan into the steam.

When the release fades, I’m left with the stark awareness that I want my fake boyfriend more than I should. More than is good for me. I wash up, turn off the water, and pull on a white T-shirt and sleep shorts, and towel-dry my hair.

When I yank open the bedroom door, Theo stuffs his phone into the pocket of his jeans like he’s the fastest draw in the West. I half wonder what he’s hiding, but then I’m not one to talk.

“It’s all yours.” I gesture grandly to the pleasure den. I mean, the bathroom. He heads in.

As I slip under the cool covers of the bed, the summer breeze lifting the white curtains in the window, I do feel a little better. A little relief.

But I also feel a little naughty.

Like when you have an unexpected dirty dream about a boss and have to go into work the next day.

When the click of the bathroom door unlocking hits my ears a few minutes later, I grip the top of the covers. Theo steps out of the bathroom, and I burn as I try not to stare at him. Every inch of my skin is sparking.

He gestures to his bare chest. “Do you care if I sleep without a shirt? I get hot at night.”

“I get hot at night, too,” I blurt out, and instantly, I want to reel those words back in.

His lips curve up, and he nods at me. “You look a little flushed, cupcake.”

“The covers are hot,” I say, pushing them to my stomach.

He tips his chin toward me. “And you’ve got that smoldering look in your eyes again. Like the night we met.”

I take the small blue decorative pillow behind me and throw it at him.

Deftly, he catches it in one hand. He’s grinning. “Nothing wrong with smoldering eyes. Especially wild green ones like you have.”

He tosses the pillow back at me. I raise my arms and catch. “Yours are smoldering, too.”

I know you are, but what am I?

I give myself a humongous mental eye roll. Why did I think hiring a hottie would be easy?

He pads across the wooden floor, the boards creaking gently. “Don’t you remember?” He walks closer to the bed, leans down, parks his palms on the white covers. “Your smoldering eyes make you irresistible.”

And I’ve officially melted. I’m a puddle of a woman. The circuit breakers have fried from the heat under my skin. I grab the wheel and swerve to the right. “I thought you’d have more ink.” My words come out breathy, and that annoys me. “Your chest is bare.”

The sky is blue.

Water is wet.

Can I say anything else that’s patently obvious?

He looks down at his pecs, then back up at me. “I left that undone deliberately.”

“Why?”

“So I’d have a blank canvas, in case I want that. Maybe someday I’ll fill it in.”

He lifts the cover and slides under. We are two logs. We are boards that frame the edge of a square. We lie there, noses pointed skyward, staring at the ceiling.

Silence descends. It’s not companionable. It’s necessary. But even so, I can’t conceive of a world where he doesn’t know what I did in the shower.

I roll to my side. “Good night, Theo.”

“Good night, April.”

But five minutes later, we’re both restless and rustling. He props himself on his elbow. “Do you need a bedtime story?”





Chapter Eleven

Theo

Her voice is soft, a hush against the night. “Do you have a good one to tell me?”

“Do you like fairy tales or real stories?” I ask her as the moonlight skates across her bare arm, tucked over the top of the cover.

“Real stories.”

“Like the first time we stayed at a B and B?”

I can feel her smile. She shifts in the bed, the sheets rustling. Turning, she looks at me. “Remind me. When was that?”

“A couple weeks ago. We took a road trip. You hate my bike, so I rented a car.”

“I don’t hate your bike,” she protests, but it’s feeble. I know she hates it.

“You do, and it’s okay if it bores you. That’s why I rented a car. I know you like to talk when we drive, and you can’t do that on a bike.”

A small laugh flutters from her mouth. “I do like to talk.”

“We sucked down Skittles and munched on Pringles and stopped for dinner at an artichoke-themed diner and we talked the whole time, before we checked into an old-fashioned B and B with a ladybug theme.”

“That’s right. Our bedcovers were red with black polka dots.”

I chuckle. This girl and her improv. “The bed was tiny. Not like this huge king-size bed,” I say, sweeping my hand over the space between us. There is so much space between us. A shadow shimmies across the foot of the bed as the curtains drift in the breeze.