Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 133682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 668(@200wpm)___ 535(@250wpm)___ 446(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 668(@200wpm)___ 535(@250wpm)___ 446(@300wpm)
I hop off the desk, adjust my underwear, then smooth down my skirt. When he emerges, he holds the door open for me. I keep my head down as I walk toward him.
I don’t know how to look my boss-fake-boyfriend in the eye after he’s made me come twice in his office. But when I reach the door, he grabs my wrist and jerks me against him, my breasts to his chest. His eyes locked on mine.
“Don’t hide your face. You were gorgeous when you walked into my office, and you were stunning when you came,” he says, and he’s without guile, without agenda.
The compliment sounds beautiful on his lips but it’s terrifying too. I don’t know where we go from here. To bed? To my knees? To the couch? “What happens next?”
He swallows roughly. Winces, then says, “We go to the party and we should be even more…” He pauses, like the words strangle him. “Believable now.”
The subtext is clear—we can’t do that again.
“Right. That was just…” My gaze drifts to the desk.
He studies me for a beat, reading me perhaps. “A one-time thing?” he asks, like he’s testing that concept.
For my sake? Probably. Yes, he’s probably making sure of the rules of the road. Like he did last week. He’s wanting to make sure this tryst changes nothing between us.
I don’t want him to think I expect sex and a fake boyfriend. I mean, that would be an amazing gift waiting for me under the tree, but I’m not sure Santa thinks I’ve been good enough to deserve that.
“A momentary lapse of reason?” I continue, giving him an out.
It’s like a dance of denial, one we both seem to need to play for some reason.
“Yes. Just a practice…a very thorough practice,” he adds.
“And now we’re done with practicing. We got that practice out of our systems.”
He says nothing for a few seconds. His handsome face is unreadable. Then he nods. “We did.” A pause. “It doesn’t have to happen again.”
The words are almost open-ended, like maybe he’d be okay if it did. But I don’t want to read anything into this situation. It’s already veered in directions I never saw coming.
“You’re right. It doesn’t.” I head into the bathroom and straighten up, and when I exit, Wilder’s at his desk, organizing the papers. His hair is smoothed down, his tie is neat. The evidence has been erased.
When he sees me, he comes around to the desk and picks up the snowman. “Thank you again,” he says, like I’m an employee who gave him a Christmas gift.
Well, I did.
“You’re welcome,” I say, then head to the door.
“Fable,” he calls out.
I turn back, and he’s closing the distance between us. “The party. Are you able to go?”
Oh, right. The reason I’m here in his office in the first place. Except, I frown, remembering the class I was going to take with Josie, Everly, and Maeve. “Yes, but I have to cancel a class with my friends.”
“That’s the only way you can attend?” he asks with concern.
“It is,” I say, telling him about the paint-and-sip class and the coveted spot with the instructor. But I wave it off. “It’s fine. My friends will understand. The party’s important, and I roped you into this whole fake-dating thing anyway.”
His brow furrows. “One, you didn’t rope me into anything. I went willingly. Two, I don’t want you to miss the class. Especially since one of your friends worked hard to get you all in.”
But it’s not like he can move the lesson, so I simply smile and exonerate him. “We’ll take it another time.”
Later that day, a courier brings a box to my office. It’s silver and wrapped in a bright red bow. My heart skitters as I open it and peek inside. Gasping, I gingerly touch the soft material of the satin-y red dress with the swingy skirt that I suspect hits right at the knees.
It’s so Christmas cocktail-y, it’s perfect. I’m not even sure what I like better—the double orgasms or the dress. I decide I like both.
That evening, as I’m drinking champagne and trying on the dress at the stylist’s, I peer in the scalloped full-length mirror, amazed it fits perfectly.
“Someone knows your size,” Arbor coos, standing behind me.
I never told Wilder my size, and yet he knew exactly what to get me. Just like he knew how to play my body.
“He’s good at shopping,” I say, since I can’t get caught up in this gift-giving. It’s part of the fake romance. It’s the magic of make-believe—that’s all. It’s Wilder fake boyfriending like no man has fake boyfriended before.
Arbor chuckles, rolling his playful brown eyes. “Hun, if a man sent me something in my size, it wouldn’t mean he had a knack for shopping. It’d mean he had a knack for me. And your boyfriend has a very big knack for you.”