Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 73762 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 369(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73762 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 369(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
“Do what?”
“Spend an entire month in my company without falling for my charms.” She says it mockingly, but the question is clearly a challenge.
I’ve never been good at backing down from a challenge, and one issued by her? Forget it.
“I think I’d manage.”
“You know,” she says, studying my face, “you’ve got me thinking.”
“Dangerous,” I mutter.
“Perhaps this could be good for us.”
My heart tightens in my chest as I realize that she’s actually considering going along with my plan. “Yeah?”
Sabrina nods. “This weird thing between us . . . the fact that we can’t coexist without tearing each other down or tearing off each other’s clothes—”
“For the record, I’m always a fan of the last one.”
She gives a slight smile. “Yes, but it’s not . . . healthy. It’s hard on our friends; it’s hard on us.”
“And you think our spending time together will fix that?” I ask, careful to keep the skepticism out of my voice. The last thing I want to do is dissuade her from helping me, but I can’t imagine a world where Sabrina Cross and I can go longer than an hour without easing the ever-present sexual tension between us, either by fighting or by screwing.
“I think it will,” she says, smiling as she sips her drink. “Pretending to be an item in public could teach us how to be civil to each other, and the near-constant proximity will definitely cure me of my ill-advised attraction to you.”
I frown. Even though I sense I’m about to get my way, I’m not at all sure I like where she’s headed with this.
Still, I’m a desperate man. “Does this mean you’ll do it?”
“On one condition.”
“Name it,” I say, my pulse thrumming with the promise of victory I sense on the horizon.
She looks at me. “No more hookups.”
“No other women until after the Wolfe Gala. Got it.”
“No, I mean we no longer hook up,” she says, using her glass to gesture between us. “We do this, we keep it clean. Literally. I won’t be your fake girlfriend and your enemy with benefits.”
I hate this idea. I hate it hard.
Sabrina and I don’t sleep together often. Self-preservation and all that. But the thought of never being able to give in to the urge, never to get my hands on her . . .
“One or the other, Cannon,” she says quietly. “You can have me pose as your girlfriend, or you can keep me as your occasional booty call.”
“Booty call my ass,” I mutter. “You initiate those interactions just as often as I do.”
“Well I won’t anymore. Not as long as we’re pretending to be in love.” She flutters her eyelashes at me.
“It’s a dumb-ass rule,” I say. “If we’re going to go through this hell together, we might as well get some pleasure out of it.”
She shrugs. “Take it or leave it. Of course, there can be casual touches to convince the skeptical public that we’re a thing. But in private, hands to ourselves. That’s the deal.”
I study her perfect features and contemplate. “So I can’t touch you, and I can’t touch anyone else. Does it go both ways? No guys on the side for you, either?”
She hesitates for a fraction of a second, with only Juno’s gentle snores from the dog bed in the corner to punctuate the silence. “Sure. That’s fair. No other guys.”
Fuck. Fuck me. Because that, right there, is what sells me.
More than my reputation, more than my job, I’m going to agree to this because it means that for a month, I’ll be free from the image of other men touching this woman. I’ll be able to pretend, even if it really is pretending, that she’s mine.
Only mine.
I lift my glass. “It’s a deal.”
She blinks in surprise but recovers, lifting her glass as well. “Fine. Good.”
We lock eyes as we clink glasses, and I realize that I’ve been wrong. I’ve been thinking the hardest part of this whole thing will be faking being in love when I don’t even believe in love.
Now I know better.
The hardest thing is going to be keeping my hands off the only woman I’ve ever wanted.
6
SABRINA
Saturday Morning, September 23
When I step out of my apartment building onto Park Avenue, I have two thoughts.
First observation: fall is truly here, and like any proper New Yorker, I smile at the realization, because it means the debut of my new black V-neck sweater, skinny jeans, and suede ankle boots is warranted.
Second observation: Matt Cannon is standing outside my apartment building, leaning back against the window as he waits for me, two Starbucks cups in hand.
His sunglasses block his eyes, but I feel his gaze drift over me as he walks my way. “Morning.”
“Really,” I say, accepting the cup he hands out. “This is how it’s going to be? You just show up whenever you want, no warning?”