Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 88057 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88057 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
“Oh. Right.” Harley nodded a little too heartily, head bobbing up and down. “Yes. We’re a couple.” After draining the rest of his coffee in a single sip, he glanced back at the door to the main part of the café. “You got more of that dark roast?”
“Absolutely, hon.” She scurried away, leaving me to shake my head at Harley.
“Tip one. Don’t look around for my imaginary other boyfriend to show up.” I chuckled, then sighed. “Maybe I should tell Hester we’re friends. Not dates.”
“No way. I was caught off guard here, but I’ll do fine at the wedding.” His voice was determined, the sort of tone he undoubtedly used to inspire confidence on a mission. “Give me a chance.”
“What I’m trying to do is give you an out.” I cut my French toast with more force than needed. I had no doubt he would will himself through this assignment, but I didn’t want to be a gig he hated. He’d said earlier how he’d never had an actual relationship. Maybe this was too big of an ask for him, and I liked him too much to watch him be uncomfortable all weekend.
“Well, don’t,” he said stubbornly. “I don’t want an out. I want to be your boyfriend.”
“You do?” For an instant, I forgot we were talking make-believe and let myself wish he meant those earnest words. His deep-blue eyes were so sincere that it would be easy to pretend.
“I’ll be a good fake boyfriend,” he insisted as he doused his burrito with hot sauce. Ah. Right. Fake. I took a breath and nodded as he continued, “You’ll just have to tell me what to do.”
“You need me to give you orders?” I had to guffaw at that notion. Seldom had I met someone as take-charge as Harley.
“Suggestions, maybe? More tips. I want to get this right.” He paused as the waitress returned to refill his coffee before flitting away to greet some newly arriving patrons on the other side of the patio.
God, Harley was sweeter than the strawberry sauce on my French toast. All that big, gruff, and growly was really a cover for a core so sweet and pure it might kill me before the weekend was over. Forget him guarding me. I wanted to protect his softer side from the world. Maybe even from myself.
But he was looking at me expectantly, apparently waiting on my direction. And some impish devil on my shoulder made me say, “You might have to let me touch you.”
In truth, I wasn’t usually huge on public displays with other boyfriends. Even before my panic disorder diagnosis, I didn’t like being the center of attention. I could make a believable boyfriend even without touching him, but my devilish side was dying to see what might happen if I did.
“I’m good with touching—oh.” His eyes widened as my foot tapped his under the table. At the wedding reception, no one was likely to notice if we played footsie, but it was a nice test for how he might react to me amping up the flirting. And the answer made electricity zoom up my leg because, despite his surprise, he didn’t flinch away. Rather, he extended his leg farther, letting my foot brush his calf. Everything about his sturdy body turned me on, right down to his faded jeans and bulky work boots. Following my lead, he touched me back, the thick sole of his boot brushing my ankle and making me hiss.
His eyes darkened as he did it again, this time looking so intently at me that it was hard to breathe.
“That’s it.” I tried to remember that I was supposed to be coaching him, not preparing to climb him like a tree the moment we were behind closed doors. “Make it convincing, see? Not like blatant PDA, but looking like you’d like to get me alone later is a good start.”
“Like this?” He tilted his head, gaze going from intense to deadly. Hot enough to fry an egg with nothing more than a steamy expression. He managed to take checking me out to an art form, making it seem like he was mentally categorizing everything he’d like to do to me and like waiting until we were alone might be optional.
Then he had to up the ante, reaching across the table to touch my wrist, sweeping his broad thumb along the crease right below my palm.
I made an inelegant noise. The guy might not do relationships, but he definitely had game. “That’ll do.”
“So, touch you, look at you like I wanna bang later, listen to you. What else does a good boyfriend do?”
“I didn’t say that last part.” I had to smile at him, going for bonus points.
“Nope. And actually, I can’t take credit. My dad used to say the most important job he had was to listen. We used to laugh because mom’s the chatty one. But I think that’s what made them so good together.” His tone was sentimental, full of the sort of familial love I knew well. “He knew when to listen. I watch Cash with his Danny some, and it’s the same deal. Cash makes sure he hears. I’m not completely brain dead when it comes to relationships.”