My Big Fat Fake Wedding - Lauren Landish Page 0,33

head and my heart. And okay, in my pants.

A fake wedding is truly crazy on some epic level, but I can’t say no to her, either. Not to that innocent face, those hungry eyes, that surprisingly tender heart . . . I can’t.

I press my lips together, my hands on my hips as I search the ceiling for some divine intervention and realize that I can only hope that she was so drunk before asking me that she doesn’t remember in the morning. That’d give us both an out.

Chapter 7

Violet—14 Days Until the Wedding

“Mmm . . . so, then the red velvet ottoman goes over there—” I murmur, but the disembodied client voice says they want it in orange juice—no, ice with a hint of whiskey. That’s not right, I think, and the discordance rouses me slightly.

I blink, soft light warming my eyelids, and I realize that it was all a dream.

I open my eyes more, fighting the gritty feeling, and see a silky-smooth comforter, an eggshell white wall . . .

Wait.

This isn’t my bedroom.

Oh, shit. This is bad.

In surprise, I jerk back, stopping when I feel a warm, thick, hard presence nestle against my ass.

Ohmyfuckinggawd. What did I do last night?

I sit up in the bed, my head swirling dangerously, and try not to scream when I turn around and see Ross lying on the other half of the bed. He’s damn near naked as the day he was born, every inch of tempting flesh on display except for a decidedly skin-tight pair of boxer briefs that don’t hide a damn thing.

He’s carved out of wood, and I’m not just talking about his bulging boxers, which are barely containing a cock so large and thick that I can literally see the head start to push the waistband outward, like a snake ready to climb out of its cave.

“What the fuck?” I rasp, only it comes out a lot louder than I expect. I flinch, my head pounding and begging me to keep the volume down. I look down, and I’m stitchless, only the sheet puddling in my lap giving me any slight modesty. I see my red dress and bra hung up on a hanger next to the door, my heels almost carefully placed underneath them.

Ross groans and stretches, opening his eyes and smiling at me, making my heart skip a beat. How is it that I wake up naked, in bed with Ross Andrews, with no real memory of how I got here, but the first thing I can think of is that I want to jump back in and drown in those sexy blue eyes of his?

“Good morning,” Ross says quietly, his smile widening into a grin as his eyes obviously trace a path along my bared breasts and belly.

“Oh, my God,” I gasp, looking around. I see a bathrobe hanging off a very expensive modernistic German armoire, and I hop up and snatch it, ignoring the tilt-a-whirl floor that threatens to take me down. I pull it on as if it’s armor that can protect me against the awkwardness of waking up with my best friend’s brother, my archenemy. As if it can protect me from my body’s reaction to his.

I tighten the belt and tuck the bows just to make sure it stays tied, but I have to admit it’s a very, very nice robe . . . and it smells like Ross. Which isn’t doing anything to help my embarrassment or my arousal.

“Okay,” I tell him finally, feeling my eyes pulse in my skull and the beginning of a headache coming on. “Let me guess . . . I got drunk?”

“You ordered mimosas for everyone in Club Red,” Ross says. He seems ridiculously at ease and not at all freaked out about our current situation, stretching out on the bed and displaying his sexy, leanly muscled body for me.

I can’t help but look on in appreciation. I’m stupid, not dead. He grins, seeing my expression. “Like what you see?” He traces his hand over his chest and down his abs, cupping himself. My hands itch to shove his hands out of the way and make the journey themselves.

But this is Ross.

“Ugh!” I protest, turning around to give him my back even as sinful thoughts of the six-foot-one-inch of man in bed behind me fill my brain.

Oh, shit . . . wait, did we—

I whirl back around, which is a big mistake for my precarious balance, but my shock and fear keep me vertical. He