this role for so long that she thinks I actually hate her. I’d give anything to start over, grow some balls, and ask her out. Now she’s my fake fiancée and I need to figure out a way to really sell it.
Which reminds me: I need to get her a ring. And unfortunately, it has to be a real one. One look from my father or grandmother and they’ll know it’s fake and that this whole thing is a sham. But can I even trust her forgetful ass with a $20,000 diamond? Probably not. She’d probably lose it and say that her nonexistent cat ate it. Then she’d turn around and ask me for money to pay for its pretend surgery to retrieve it. No doubt, the vet from Joke’s-on-You clinic wouldn’t be able to recover it, and I’d have an imaginary cat worth $20,000.
While I steam, I keep coming up with ways to torture her. She definitely needs some fine-tuning if I expect her to pass my father and grandmother’s harsh judgments. If she thinks I’m judgmental, she hasn’t seen anything yet. I guess I could spoil her with a spa day so she’ll be more apt to listen to my other suggestions. Maybe that’ll help soften the blow when I tell her she needs a few etiquette lessons. She needs to know when to use the small fork and how to butter her roll before I can present her to my family over dinner. My future looks better and better. She’ll be tortured by everything, and I’ll be amused—watching her pay me back for all the suffering she’s put me through.
I stand up and shower after my steam. I get out, dry off, and pull on my silk pajama bottoms. Walking back into my room, I see it’s only going on 9 p.m. I decide to have a nightcap before bed, needing something to calm my nerves due to having her in my house. Not only does she tease me by simply being present, but I’m also on edge—worrying she’ll burn the place down with a scented candle or some shit. That reminds me . . . new rule: no candles in my house.
I head to the kitchen and pull the bottle of scotch from the cabinet. I take down a glass and pour in the liquid before tossing it back and deciding on another. I pull out my phone, tempted to send a text to my best friend, Foster, to see if he wants to go grab a drink. It’s been five minutes of her living here and I already need to get out. I decide against texting Foster and grab the bottle of scotch. As I’m pouring my second drink, she steps into the kitchen and we both freeze when our eyes land on each other.
She’s wearing a long, oversized T-shirt that hangs down to her mid-thigh. I can’t see any shorts beneath, and that nearly makes my dick jump. Her auburn hair is long and dark—soaking wet as it hangs down on either side of her face. Her face is free of makeup, but her lips look plump and her eyes are almost doe-like.
“Oh, sorry. I didn’t realize you were in here. I was just grabbing some water before bed.” She points toward the fridge.
“Help yourself,” I insist. I step to the side, taking the bottle and glass with me.
She rounds the island in the center of the kitchen and opens the glass door of the fridge, taking out a bottle of water. I can’t help but notice the way that shirt rides up slightly when she reaches for the bottle. She closes the fridge and turns to leave, but stops at the doorway. She turns back to face me, her eyes downcast. “Sorry about dinner tonight.” She shakes her head once and squares her chin. “You’re just really good at pissing me off.”
I smirk. “Ditto,” I agree. “Good night, Poppy.” I raise my glass to her and she turns and leaves me alone, staring after her round ass as it sways back and forth under that thin piece of material.
She’s going to fucking kill me. If not with her words, then with her body I’m not allowed to touch.
Sleep comes easily, but it’s not dreamless. She takes up residence in each dream, forcing her way into my head—almost like I’ve forced my way into her life. The dreams start out looking a lot like the time we’ve spent together: arguing and fighting over whatever