My (Mostly) Fake Wedding - Penelope Bloom Page 0,23

while I swept the floors. Yes, I was even doing the occasional vocal solo into the handle of the broom, except I was notoriously bad at remembering lyrics, so I mostly just moved my lips enthusiastically and made guttural noises.

I was in the middle of “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” when someone knocked at my door.

Like any sane person, I cut the music and tiptoed toward the door, hoping whoever it was hadn’t heard I was home. As sneakily as I could, I lifted my eye to the peep hole on my door.

I was greeted by a fish-bowl version of Chris’ face—yes, he even looked good when his nose was twice its normal size and his eyes were pushed off to the side.

“I see you in there,” he said. “Let me in. I know how to pick locks, so asking is really just a formality.”

“If you stick anything in my lock, I’ll scream.”

“Yeah, I know from experience. And I enjoyed it.”

I rolled my eyes, grinning only because I knew he couldn’t see. “I need to get dressed. Wait there.”

“You’re naked?” Chris started reaching for something in his pocket, then I heard metal scrabbling from inside the door.

I didn’t have time to be pissed, so I turned and ran as fast as I could toward my bedroom closet. The socks I’d put on to be able to pull off a wicked entrance slide ended up working too well. I tried to slow down before I turned, but my feet kept going forward.

The next thing I knew, I was sliding on my ass and my head was thumping against the floor.

I blinked a few times, then felt the dull, spikey throb of pain start to pulse from under my scalp.

“You okay?” Chris called through the door. “Did you just fall?”

“I’m alive!” I shouted. “Don’t come in. I’m not decent.”

“Me either, it’s okay.” The door swung open, and Chris half-jogged toward me. He knelt, then frowned when he saw where I was touching my scalp.

“I told you not to come in,” I groaned.

“Yeah, well, you can yell at me later when you’ve got some frozen peas on your head. Plus, I’ve already seen everything you’ve got to offer. There are no secrets between us anymore, wifey.”

I let out a low, half-laughing moan. “Please don’t start calling me that.”

“Already started.”

I flinched when he scooped me up and carried me to the couch. He set me down, then threw a blanket over me.

“I don’t have hypothermia. I just hit my head.”

“Sorry. Saw the hard nipples through that t-shirt and figured it was either the cold or me. I didn’t want to make assumptions, but it’s good to know I still get you going.”

With an obnoxious wink, he went to my fridge and rooted around. “Do I even want to know what a sane person is doing with three different kinds of pickle jars in her fridge? Are you eating these, or are you way lonelier than I thought?”

“Some are for snacking. Some are for sandwiches. And some are for relish.”

“Well,” he said, coming back toward me with a chilled jar of dill pickles. “Your horribly under-stocked fridge only had this to offer. He stuck the jar toward me, waiting for me to grab it. “What?” he asked when I didn’t take them right away.

“I feel like my uncle just stuck his finger out and asked me to pull it.”

“Come on. I’m not that predictable, am I?”

Reluctantly, I took the pickles.

“I wish I could say this was the first time you got your hands all over my pickle.”

I sighed. “They aren’t even your pickles. Terrible joke.”

“You could do better?”

As if he owned the place, Chris hopped on the couch by my feet, making himself comfortable. He was wearing a t-shirt with his name on it and the little logo of his silhouette winding up for a pass that was on all the Chris Rose gear.

“I could, but I’m not about to lower myself to your level.” I adjusted the blanket with my free hand, making sure I wasn’t flashing my underwear at him. I also pulled it up to cover my nipples. And even if he was right about why they were hard, he was still an asshole for pointing it out. I couldn’t help it if my nipples hardened at the slightest hint of arousal.

“I’m serious,” he said. “Try to make me laugh. And being yourself doesn’t count.”

“Ha. Ha,” I said dryly. “And you can’t just tell someone to make you laugh on command. I’m