Page 115 of The No Touch Roommate Rule

She leans against the dryer, looking determined, but not in a sexy way. I’m still trying to read the vibes when she blurts out, “I have no idea how to say this, so I’ll just say it. Flat out. I heard you were in trouble for beating a guy up last weekend. And facing suspension if you can’t convince the higher-ups that you’re on the straight and narrow from now on. Is that right?”

My jaw tightens. “Yeah, that’s about the size of it. But I don’t regret what I did. That asshole had it coming.”

“Sounds like it,” she says. “But that doesn’t mean you won’t be punished for it. People get punished for doing the right thing all the time.”

I shrug. “But virtue for virtue’s sake, right? At least that’s what Aristotle said.”

Her lips hook up on one side. “Aristotle also said virtue calls for judgment. I’m not saying you made an error in judgment, but I have a feeling the Voodoo management might have a different opinion…” She pulls in a breath and crosses her arms. “So, I have a proposition for you."

I nod, pretending the fact that she knows Aristotle doesn’t turn me on like nothing else. “Okay. I’m listening.”

“You need to rehabilitate your image. Show the world you’re not some loose cannon who solves problems with his fists. And I need a date for my ex’s wedding in two weeks. Someone who will make him regret every stupid decision he’s ever made. I wasn’t going to worry about revenge, but things have escalated recently and…” She lets out a sharp laugh. “Well, I feel like being petty. Really petty. And me showing up to his wedding with mygorgeous hockey player boyfriend is the kind of petty that will drive Theodore fucking nuts.”

Forcing my ego to ignore the “gorgeous” part of that, I home in on the meat of her proposal. “Boyfriend, huh? So, this would be more than a wedding date kind of thing?”

“It would have to be in order to convince the team that you’re a stable, settled man in a long-term relationship with a boring older woman. One who will keep you home doing reno projects on your nights off, so you won’t get into trouble on Bourbon Street.”

I nod slowly, my brain mulling her offer, but my body’s already made its decision.

My body, which knows absolutely nothing about Charlotte is “boring.”

“How long are we talking?” I ask.

“Six weeks? Two months? Long enough that your PR team decides you’re not a problem anymore and moves on?”

“That’s a lot of investment on your part,” I say. “Seems kind of unfair. A couple of months of work for me in exchange for one night for you.”

Her smile turns sharp. “But it will be one hell of a night. His wife-to-be was also a friend. My protégée, actually. I want to rub her nose in my superior happiness, too. Make it clear she didn’t take anything I wasn’t done with a long time ago.” She shrugs. “You’re significantly better looking than Theodore. Probably smarter, too, which I know will really chap his ass, so…”

“You think I’m smart?” I ask, stepping closer.

Her cheeks flush. “You know you’re smart.”

“Yeah, but a lot of women don’t notice,” I say. “I like that you do. And I like that you know Aristotle.”

“Aristotle was a very smart man,” she whispers, tipping her lips closer to mine.

Suddenly, the air in the tiny room feels too warm. Charlotte’s looking at me like she’s thinking about having her way with me up against the washing machine, and every rational part of my brain is screaming that this is a terrible idea—pretending to be this woman’s lover is a good way to keep pining for her for a damned long time.

But the rest of me?

The rest of me is already imagining how much fun we could have during those “boring” weekends, with nothing to do but grab brunch, wander through the park, and fuck each other senseless in that big sexy garden in her backyard. It’s even bigger than Parker’s, with a lot more room between the eggplant and the rhubarb…

Surely, she’ll see we’re much better off making that part of our “pretend” the real deal. Right?

“Okay, then, sounds good,” I say, my voice huskier than it was before. “When do we start?”

She shrugs again, a breezy lift of her bare shoulder. “I don’t know. I mean, tonight could work. Think about it, and let me know. I’ll be on the dance floor.”

She’s halfway out the door when I call after her. “Charlotte.”

She turns, her brows lifted.

“How far do you want this to go?” I ask. “Are we holding hands in public and calling it good? Or are we really selling it?”

She studies me for a beat, that dangerous smile from our night in the hot tub spreading across her face. “Guess we’ll find out.”

The door clicks shut behind her, and I’m left standing in her laundry room, blood pumping faster, wondering what the hell I just signed up for.

Nix and Charlotte’s steamy fake-dating