Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 83211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
He has a good memory. “Yup. The one and only.”
I sit tall, still wrapping my head around the email. He could’ve contacted me. He could’ve had Human Resources contact me. Why be a dick?
“What did he do?” Banks asks carefully.
“I did a bunch of work—almost exclusively, really—for a client called Petterson Label Wines. They throw this gala every year that’s the place to be and everyone clamors for an invite. Apparently, I was given an invitation and Joshua told them I didn’t work there anymore and would be unable to attend—even though I deserve to be there.”
Banks sits back, his hands folded in his lap. His face is unreadable. Handsome but unreadable.
“Fuck him,” I mutter, picking my phone up. I type out a succinct, professional response to his assistant, thanking them for the offer and accepting it. Then I shove it in my pocket. “The nerve of that guy.”
“Are you going?” he asks.
“Where?”
He gestures toward my pocket. “To the party or gala or whatever.”
“Yes, I’m going. I worked my ass off on that account. And, besides, I’m unemployed. Maybe I’ll network with someone and get a job offer.”
His lips twitch. “Will the ex-boss be there?”
Crap. I didn’t consider that. “Probably. He goes every year. Only, this year he’ll have his new fiancée with him.”
“You don’t care about that?”
“Nope. Not even a little. It was his parting shot that pissed me off. He told me that I wasn’t wife material. Can you believe that?”
Banks smirks. “Yeah.”
I pick up a pillow and throw it at him. He catches it easily and tucks it beside him in the chair.
“Just take someone with you,” he says. “Make him think that you didn’t lose any sleep over him. That you rebounded the next day. Guys hate it when they think they weren’t memorable.”
Not a bad idea. I whip out my phone once again and check the details of the invitation. You and a plus-one.
An idea percolates in my mind, slowly coalescing into one smooth, solid idea.
“I don’t just need a rebound,” I say, still working through the plan. “I need to make him eat his words—make him think he really screwed up. That he miscalculated.”
“What do you want to do? Get married real quick?” Banks asks, laughing. “A little overkill, don’t you think?”
A slow smile stretches across my face. “Yeah, but a fake fiancé isn’t.”
“A fake fiancé?” Brooke hands me a glass of wine and sits on the loveseat beside Moss. “Who is getting a fake fiancé?”
“Me. Maybe.” I take a sip. “Oh, this is lovely.”
Banks tips back his beer, watching me over the brim.
“Who is going to be your pretend husband?” Brooke asks.
“I don’t know yet. I’m working that out.”
Brooke rests her head on Moss’s shoulder. She grins mischievously. “Are you going to tell us why you were at her apartment yesterday, Banks?”
My gaze snaps to his. As his smile grows in amusement, my brows lift in fear.
“Banks …” I warn.
“Well, she—”
“No,” I shout, placing my wine on the table beside me. Laughing, I leap off the chair and toward him. I clamp my hand over his mouth. “Don’t you dare.”
Moss and Brooke laugh as Banks and I struggle.
He opens his mouth wide, licking my palm. I yelp in disgust but don’t pull away. Eyes twinkling, he wraps his arm around my waist and pulls me onto his lap.
My heart races as my body temperature spikes. I pant, trying desperately to hold my hand against his mouth. And not melt against him.
Banks’s body is as hard as I imagined. Sturdier than I dreamed. His hand on my hip is both as strong and tender as I anticipated.
Dammit.
He smiles under my efforts before reaching up and peeling my hands away from his face. Once he’s free, he chuckles.
“Don’t,” I say, looking him dead in the eye. Our faces are only inches apart. They’re so close that I can feel the heat of his breath.
“What if I do?”
I pout. “I’ll cry.”
He smirks. “What if I don’t?”
“I don’t know.” I catch my breath. “I’ll be thankful.”
“Not good enough.”
“Of course, it’s not,” I say, unable to look away.
He slides my phone out of my pocket. The feeling of his hand only separated from my thigh by the thinnest piece of cotton ever made sends a rush of electricity through my body.
“What are you doing?” I ask, cognizant of the hardening of his cock beneath my ass.
He sets the phone beside him.
My heart races. “What are you doing, Banks?”
The words come out faster, higher than I expect. But that’s what happens when you’re filled with adrenaline and anticipation.
“I won’t tell them on one condition,” he says.
“What’s that?”
Before I know what he’s doing, he’s standing with me in his arms. The movement is fluid and smooth—like I don’t weigh an ounce more than a feather. My legs are scooped under one thick forearm. My back is supported by the other. Thank God—for my sake—his brother and Brooke can’t see his front.