How the hell was she supposed to cope with that? Being trapped in the car with no means of escape or distraction from his sheer sex appeal had been difficult enough. She hoped the hotel room windows opened or they’d both suffocate in the fog of her lust. This physical attraction was bloody inconvenient, and honestly? It seemed to be getting worse.
“Yes,” she agreed dutifully. “We’ll have fun.” It wasn’t exactly a lie. Spending time with him: that would be fun. But acting like they were together, letting him shower her with casual affection and hot looks while knowing it was 100% fake? She had the oddest feeling she was going to hate that part.
They finally reached the desk and its French receptionist, a petite blonde with impressively fluttery eyelashes. Once, after the accident that scarred her face, Rae’s mother had insisted she try eyelash extensions because You need to make an effort, these days, darling. They’d been irritating as fuck. Rae had pulled them all out and her natural lashes had been unintended casualties. An unattractive couple of months had followed.
This receptionist looked far too chic and put together to accidentally yank out her own lashes—although she did seem slightly nervous around Rae. What had Zach said? You have homicidal energy. Despite herself, Rae chuckled under her breath. Zach caught her eye in the mirror behind the desk, and his own lips curved like he knew exactly what she was thinking.
“Bonjour sir, madame.” The blonde—Céline, according to her badge—offered them a tremulous smile. “Name?”
Zach grinned like a shark. “Oh, yeah, Rae. Tell the nice lady your name.”
She shot him a quelling look, then said calmly, “B. A. McRae.”
He bent down to whisper in her ear again. “Chicken.” He had no idea that every time he whispered to her like that, the intimacy of it destroyed her composure. He was turning her on like a tap. The scent of him, pure flame overlaid by something cool and green, like walking Duke through the woods just after dawn, made her dizzy and drunk and desperate.
She needed to control her reactions. If he ever realised how tragically in lust she was, he’d be horribly uncomfortable, and she’d have to throw herself into the Trent.
Céline clicked away at her computer for a moment, then looked up at Rae, arching perfectly plucked eyebrows. Yeah, yeah. What a name, blah, blah. To her credit, Céline didn’t say a word, just tapped some more and said, “You’re in room eleven-fifteen. Would you like one key or two?”
“Two, please.”
The hotel was already rammed, convention-goers checking in, hanging about at the bar, or taking selfies in front of the banners decorating the foyer. Those banners, with their bold images of iconic fantasy covers, looked as out of place in the business hotel as the convention-goers themselves. Rae checked off types as she led the way to the lifts: excited influencers, antisocial writers, harried assistants, and speculative agents and editors wondering who they’d discover this time. Her own agent was here somewhere, but she was in no hurry to see him or anyone else she knew.
Concocting this ridiculous plan had been all fun and games, but now they were here, Rae knew it wouldn’t work. How did you fake a relationship? She was forty years old, for Christ’s sake. She didn’t do shit like this. Zach could support her just fine while being exactly what he was: a dear friend whose loveliness occasionally—okay, regularly—made her melt. That was more than enough.
Muttering nervously under her breath, she hit the gleaming button for the lift. While she was distracted, Zach snagged her suitcase, biceps bulging as he lifted it along with his own.
“Give it back,” she said, already resigned to the fact that he absolutely wouldn’t.
His laughing eyes focused on the lift doors instead of her. Zach-speak for This is not a debate. “No. It’s heavy.”
“Which is why I should be carrying it.”
“Shut up,” he said. “Who lets his girlfriend carry her own shit? Kevins, that’s who.”
He was like a mugger, stealing her smiles at gunpoint. “Zach…”
One dark brow arched, deliciously arrogant. “Don’t pretend you’re pissed. I always know when you’re faking it. That’s my specialty.”
“Spotting fakes?” She cocked her head. “How ironic.”
“Hey. Stay in character.”
“I didn’t say anything!”
“You’re flirting with confession, sunshine.” He looked around warily, like they were running from the mob. “You never know who’s listening.”
“Oh, for God’s—”
The ding and slide of elevator doors interrupted her eyeroll. Fuck. A pair of men she recognised stepped out of the