Done changing the guard, we say our goodbyes and race to the car. As I blast the heat, Jack’s phone buzzes.
“Yup, okay. Thank you… We’ll pick it up after dinner. I will. Bye.” He shoots me a warm smile. “My car’s finished. If you wouldn’t mind, can you drop me off on your way home?”
“Sure.” My grip tightens on the wheel while a strange pang of disappointment settles in my chest. Not that it matters—with my daughter sleeping at my place tonight, sex is officially off the table.
Just as well.
But still… the thought of a quick tumble had been enticing.
After a twenty-minute drive, we settle into a booth at The Old Barn. The warm scent of grilled meat and seasoned fries fills the air, mingling with the muffled hum of conversation.
I order a light beer, our host goes for the local brew on tap, and Mack gets a Diet Coke. As we dig into our burgers, the door swings open.
Oh fuck.My mouth freezes mid-bite.
John Bourdin strides inside, scanning the room like he owns it.
Shrinking in my seat, I casually let my napkin slide off my lap, hoping—praying—he doesn’t notice me.
No such luck.
By the time I straighten, the man of my nightmares beelines to our table.
Frowning, the former Marine shifts closer. As his arm brushes against mine, his body coils. His hands may rest at his sides, but I don’t miss the tension in his fingers.
Quietly for me, he mutters, “Your ex?”
“No. He’s nobody,” I whisper back. “Say nothing. Let me handle this.”
Before John can open his obnoxious pie-hole and ruin my evening, Jack slips an elbow around my waist, pulling me into a kiss. A real one. Not a polite, let’s-make-this-convincing peck.
Nope.
Firm, demanding lips claim mine. His tongue teases the seam of my mouth until it parts. As his left hand slides up to cradle the back of my neck, he holds me in place to deepen the connection.
Moaning softly, my brain misfires. Synapses crackle as if stepping onto thin ice—my sole excuse for melting into him. When we finally come up for air, my thirteen-year-old applauds.
Only seconds have passed, yet, in that time, Bourdin’s face has turned an alarming shade of purple. While his neck muscles pulse, my fake boyfriend pushes back from our make-out like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Smirking, he rises to his full height and thrusts out a hand. “Jack Gurion.”
To his credit, the coyote shakes the offered greeting. He towers over many men, but next to Mr. Wildlife, he’s simply another guy trying too hard.
“John Bourdin. Friend of the family.”
Like hell he is.
Nostrils flared, eyes narrowed, the Canadian grimaces. His clipped nasal accent makes his first name sound more likeZhun.
My fake date’s smile doesn’t falter. “A pleasure to meet you. Me and my sweetheart met online. I think I’ll keep her.” He winks at me, but his eyes hold danger, like MI6’s Agent 007.
Sensing the challenge, the thug bristles. He snatches a fourth chair, flips it around, then straddles it. Leaning in, he snarls. “How long you here for,zhjack?”
The ex-Marine doesn’t flinch. Instead, he simply glows at me like he has a naughty secret. “As long as it takes to convince this woman to give me a chance.”
The romantic gesture makes my heart stutter. That’s why I miss what is said next.
Sparks flickering in his eyes, Gurion’s lethal, smooth voice lowers. “How about we discuss this outside?”
