1
JILL
Of all thequestionable things I’ve done in my twenty-five years of life, agreeing to let my boss be my fake boyfriend ranks somewhere between cutting my own bangs in a dimly lit bathroom and helping myself to two bottles of champagne the morning of my parents’ wedding renewal ceremony.
I’ve got too small a forehead to rock bangs, and my family still hasn’t let me live down that champagne fiasco. Still, I wasn’t exactly in the best of headspaces then. In the present, I like to consider myself pretty put together. Hence, I don’t have an excuse for agreeing to this other than knowing it could have been much worse.
Grayson Pierce may be my best friend, Ivy’s, and my boss, but I like to think that he’s also our friend. He attends all of our weekly dinners and is always the first person to offer to shovel my sidewalks after a heavy snowfall. Hell, he even rakes my lawn when the leaves start to fall and puts them in those cute orange garbage bags with the pumpkin faces.
Friends is a far cry from boyfriend, though. Regardless of how fake said relationship is supposed to be.
“I’ll do it, Jill”is what he said when he’d overheard my conversation with my best friend last week.
It was totally weird for him to be eavesdropping on our conversation like that, but Ivy had been poking me about the details of my sister’s upcoming wedding, and I just . . . let them explode into her kitchen. I can still feel the lingering heat from the anger I felt while reading the text my mother had sent to inform me that she’d asked my ex-boyfriend to be my plus one.
There was no way in hell I was letting that happen, so we quickly came up with a plan B. That’s when Grayson inserted himself into the situation.
Now, a week later, I’m standing outside of his closed office door with a mug of coffee in my hand—two cream and two sugars—and a giant rock in my stomach. I’ve managed to avoid talking to him about the details thus far, but considering we need to leave tomorrow, I’ve officially run out of runway. It’s either crash or take off.
Puffing out a quick breath, I steady myself and straighten. I force a smile and squeeze the handle of the Easter Bunny mug until I swear to God hear a crack. It doesn’t snap off, though. No hot coffee splatters all over the dress I debated putting on for over an hour this morning. I ignore the waver in my grin and keep it in place as footsteps creep closer to the door.
“Is it lunch already?”
The rough baritone of Grayson’s voice filters through the door before it’s peeled open. I swallow the gasp that always threatens to expose my innermost fascination with this man and push the mug toward him. Deep, evergreen eyes pierce into me before dipping down to the mug I’m now trying to impale him with.
“Lunch? Nope. It’s coffee time, though. Mind if I come in?”
“Sure.”
His towering six-three frame shifts to make room for me to step inside the office. I don’t dare let my lips fall from their held position as I pass him, still gripping the mug. Clearing my throat, I set it down on the neatly organized mahogany desk and slap my thighs with both hands.
He shuts the door behind us. “Is everything alright, Jill?”
Oh, shit, can he smell my armpits from there? Am I that sweaty already? I sure feel like it. If I could touch my neck, I’m sure it would feel slippery. That’ssosexy, wow. Maybe my chances that he’ll agree to this will go up if he knows I’m a nervous sweater.
Ugh.
“Yep. It’s all good. I just noticed that you’ve been locked in here for a while now and wanted to bring you some of the coffee I made this morning. If you waited any longer to grab some, it would be Ivy’s batch.”
My best friend and the Snowbell Ridge event planner might be great at making peppermint daiquiris in her husband’s bar, but she’s terrible when it comes to using the office coffee machine.
Silently agreeing with me, Grayson’s perfectly straight nose crinkles in a way that shouldn’t be so frustratingly sexy. It’s a move that children do when they’re told to eat their broccoli. It’s certainly not something a grown man should be able to pull off. Unfortunately for me, I’ve come to realize that my boss can make just about anything look good.
He’s the very definition of a clean-cut man. There’s never any stubble on his defined, square jaw, or a rogue piece of chocolate brown hair that hasn’t been swooped and gelled. His slacks are always pressed to perfection, even on the days where he lets himself “dress down” and swaps his usual button-up and suit jacket for a half-zipped sweater, almost always in a bland colour, and a pair of tight jeans. I’ve grown to just expect him to come inevery morning looking like he has a team of professionals living with him.
And don’t even get me started on the glasses.
He mostly wears them when he’s reading, but they’re these large square ones that are just the slightest bit too big and slip down the bridge of that perfect nose. It seems to always be the sexy librarian special with this guy.
He leans back against the edge of his desk, crossing his ankles as he takes the mug. The veins on the back of his hand pulse and strain beneath his tan skin as he brings it up to his lips and takes a sip. It’s difficult not to wiggle around beneath the weight of his lingering gaze.
“Two creams and two sugars like always,” I blurt out, laughing choppily.
“Yes, I can taste that. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Slowly, he pulls the mug away from his face and inspects it. I nonchalantly swipe my palms over the soft fabric of my red wrap dress and watch as he eyes the Easter Bunny’s ass. My face heats. Yeah, that was totally the wrong cup to use right now.
