Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 79932 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79932 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
Crossland smiled down at me before returning his attention to the road. “And we're not going to any event tonight,” he said. “I'm just taking you to dinner.”
“What?” I asked, shock rattling through me. “I would have been fine with having Len driver us. You didn't have to bring out your father's prized car—”
“I wanted to see you in it,” he said so matter-of-factly that it stopped any response I may have formed.
My heart expanded, pounding furiously as I tried to work out the meaning behind those words.
This felt important, but it couldn't be that important, right? This had to be just another layer of him that he was sharing with me as his fake girlfriend and very real friend.
Very real friends who knew the most intimate details about each other 's bodies, sure, but friends.
That's what we agreed to in the beginning, and beyond that, I was just hired help. An actress playing a role, and I had to wonder if I was doing what so many of the stars do.
Was I falling for my leading man?
I mean, it would make sense. Crossland was absolutely somebody worth loving. Not only for his sense of adventure and irresistible confidence or his skills in other departments, but for his heart. He was a genuinely good man, regardless of how many ridiculous jokes he would crack when things would get serious in order to break the tension.
He’d be easy to fall in love with. If I was going to allow myself to do such a thing.
Which I wouldn’t because he’d hired me for one thing and one thing only. And we only had a month left before all of that would be done, and I'd be left with this wonderful, adventurous memory of my time with him.
Maybe I'd get the occasional friendly text or, if I was very lucky, a casual meetup. But it couldn't be more. Because as Crossland had so expertly displayed and told me over the last two months, he wasn't somebody that could be tied down. And why would I want to tie him down when he lived for adventure? When he lived for the next thing and the next thing and the next thing, never settling, never standing still.
I knew I should talk to him about it. Knew I should tell him that I was feeling apprehensive about the end of our contract being only thirty days away. I should tell him that every time I thought about it a pit opened up in my stomach, threatening to swallow me whole. But the idea of me telling him, and him giving me one of his beautifully charming and gentle rejections?
I don't think I could go on pretending for another thirty days if he did that. So maybe I was a coward, but I didn't want to ruin the last of something that had become so beautiful to me.
Crossland pulled up to a restaurant I'd seen raved about on social media, electing to park his car himself before he escorted me up to the rooftop terrace.
The space was free of any other patrons, soft music tinkling around the space, the beautiful twinkling city stretching out beneath the night sky beyond the railings of the balcony. A table for two was illuminated by flickering candlelight, and I found myself quite literally unable to speak.
“For someone who boldly claims he’s not a romantic,” I finally said when I found my voice again. “This is giving romance.”
Crossland settled in the chair across from me, his grin easy and open. “I have to say, I did have fun planning this,” he said, pairing it with a little shrug. “Maybe you bring out the romantic in me.”
I wanted to groan, to whine in agony when he said things like that. He was always so good at being charming, and I couldn't help but wish it was real. But it was real enough, and he had been kind enough to plan this night for me, with no cameras and no friends watching and analyzing our relationship. Just us.
I wouldn't waste those efforts.
The servers brought us a pre-selected dinner course, complete with a mushroom risotto appetizer and champagne. We fell into easy conversation between bites of what was the best food I'd ever tasted, and I found myself slipping just a little bit more in the resiliency of shielding my heart from him.
“I love that your mom was a baker,” I said after he’d recanted a story about her impulse baking at two a.m., and him waking up to the smell of sugar and chocolate in the middle of the night. “Especially when she could have had any desserts she wanted brought in.”
“It was the process for her,” Crossland said. “She loved exploring new recipes, and then watching us devour every bite. She was a marvelous cook too, but baking was where her true joy was. Beyond the businesses that her and my father ran together.”