Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 82945 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 415(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82945 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 415(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
“Good to know,” she says quietly.
I stare at her and begin to walk again. Otherwise I’m going to get hard. She licks her lips and her eyes drift down my body. I’m sweating now and she’s noticing. I like that she’s looking. I like that she’s aroused, maybe as much as I am.
But no sex. That’s the rule.
Not that I particularly want to make this fake relationship messier than it already is. Fiona’s beautiful, yes, and I want her physically, but she’s still a mess. There are a dozen reasons why I don’t want to get even more tangled with her.
Still, the idea of her rubbing her soaking wet clit against my tongue—
Fuck, I need a cold shower after this.
“I should go,” she squeaks, turning on her heel. “Good talk.”
She marches out.
Her door slams.
And there’s no doubt in my mind she’s in her bed right now, giving herself the orgasm she deserves.
Fuck, that girl is trouble.
But she’s right: we need to get to know each other. Not just sexually, but in every way I can think of. I need to know her likes, dislikes, hobbies, tastes, habits. All the stuff a husband would know intuitively.
And I have two days to do it.
Time for a crash course in Fiona Kane.
Chapter 14
Fiona
I do my best to keep pace with him, but Gareth pushes all my buttons.
We jog through downtown, heading toward the river. “All right, questions time,” he says as the sun rises over the skyline.
He woke me up early. Three sharp knocks on my door. It scared the crap out of me—yanked me right from sleep—and I nearly rolled out of the unfamiliar bed.
Still getting used to my new situation.
When I finally crawled into the hallway, heart racing, in nothing but a pair of shorts and a practically see-through tank top, I stared at Gareth, pretty sure the place was on fire.
No reasonable, rational human being would pound on someone’s door that early otherwise.
But he only stared at me with that intense glare of his. Like I was the one that woke him up or something. Eyes roaming down to my chest.
Only to find out that he woke me for a predawn jog. “I expect you dressed and ready in ten,” he said before storming off again.
The fucking prick.
Yet here I am, jogging away.
“Go ahead,” I say, so clearly struggling. He slows a touch, which kind of pisses me off and makes me feel weak, but god, I really need a break.
“Favorite movie.”
“Sandlot.”
“Favorite song.”
“Taylor Swift.” He gives me a look. I tilt my chin up, daring him to call me out for being a Swiftie. “All of them. Next.”
He sighs. “Favorite food.”
“Pizza. Mexican. All of it. Next.”
He laughs, shaking his head. “You can’t like all the food. There has to be something you don’t like.”
I consider that. “I was a vegetarian for like a year in college, but I got drunk with Cait one time and ate a plate of bacon at a diner at three in the morning. Quit being vegetarian after that. But I guess I don’t like mushrooms, although I’ll eat them if they’re in something.”
“Bacon made you go back to eating meat?”
“I know, it’s awful, but a true story.”
“I’m surprised, honestly, I expected you to have a food thing.”
I’m not sure what that’s supposed to mean and decide to let it go. “Let me guess. You’re a picky eater.”
“No, not particularly. I don’t like raw onions, but I’ll also eat them if they’re in a dish. I don’t like overcooked steak. I despise mild hot sauce. What’s the point of hot sauce if it’s not hot?”
I grin at him. “Great point. Might as well call it watery ketchup at that point.”
“Glad we agree on something.” He clears his throat. “Favorite TV show.”
“Parks and Recreation.”
“How old are you again?” he asks, eyebrows raising. “That show was on TV when I was in college.”
“I was a very advanced child.”
“God, don’t remind me about how young you are.”
“Don’t like that you’re married to a girl ten years your junior? What do they call that, robbing the cradle?”
His nose wrinkles with disgust. “If you start calling me daddy, I swear I’ll throw you in the water.”
“Oh, Daddy, don’t get mad at me.” I bat my eyelashes as a thrill runs down my spine. He’s staring at me like he wants to do something very filthy right now. Something that doesn’t involve tossing me into the river.
“Back to work,” he says, practically growling. “Where did you go to high school?”
I give him the basic rundown: two boring parents, born outside of Austin, moved to Dallas, went to a boring school, had boring friends, went to the University of Pennsylvania, parents moved to Florida, they turned into sex freaks (“You don’t take after them?” he asks, grinning, and I only give him a dirty look.), and here I am today. Drowning in debt, married to my boss.