“They’ll smooth talk you out of your panties and out of your dreams, then leave you with a broken heart and a babe in your belly. Just like that daddy of yours did to your mama.”
Avery Preston was beautiful—a dream stealer with coal-black hair that flirted over one eyebrow, brown eyes as rich as dark chocolate fudge, and full lips that promised to taste just as sweet. The jury was still out on the smooth-talking part. So far, all she’d heard was cliché and cocksure.
That hadn’t stopped the tickle in her belly when he’d shoved her in the van and slammed her against the cabinets. Or the rapid beat of her heart now, as he stood there, all long and lean and sculpted muscle beneath that designer suit, waiting for her to respond.
To what? Did he just asked me out?
No, he said need. Not want.
What difference did it make? She wasnotdating this man-child, this savory morsel of temptation with a capital T that spelled trouble. She could hear her grandma’s whisper,“That flutter in your tummy’ll lead to the flutter of a wee one.”
Grandma didn’t trust men, and neither did Jo…anymore. Twice, she’d tried. Twice, she’d failed. Or rather, they’d failedher. Now, her grandma’s whispers and the callused scars on her heart were her armor.
Slipping back into its protective shell, she shook her head. “I’m not interested in your needs.”
“Then let’s talk about yours,” he said, angling his head toward Giselle’s van. “Your pâtisserie? I can help you get it.”
Heat rushed to her cheeks. So that’s what he’d meant about making her dreams come true. Dreams not fantasies. He’d piqued her curiosity in both, and that was scary. Dreams were safe. Fantasies were dangerous. She hadn’t felt that sexual pull in a long time. That alone should have her running for the hills.
On the other hand, she’d been saving for almost a year and had only put away a drop in the bucket of what she needed. What could it hurt to hear him out?
Jo squashed the hormones running roughshod over good sense. “I’m listening. Make it fast.”
“I need a date,” he repeated. “Well, not really a date. I’m thinking more along the lines of a plus one with the appearance of a date.”
“Fake dating?” This sounded like one of the books Brooke had left lying around in their apartment and had disaster written all over it.
“Yes,” he said, turning up the wattage of a smile that sent goosebumps rippling along her skin. “I would pay you. Per event.” Excitement danced in his eyes as he took a step toward her and swung an arm to encompass the country club. “And believe me, I go to a lot of these things.”
How much?The question stalled at the tip of her tongue, her mouth going dry, both at his nearness and the scent of hiscitrusy cologne swirling around her. He was oozing that charm again.
“I don’t have time for dating, fake or otherwise.” She’d meant the retort to come out with a sharp and resounding fuck-you tone. Instead, it sounded as if she regretted not having the time to spare. As if her career was insignificant, when it was really the only thing that drove her, the only thing she allowed herself to think about.
“We can work out the details.” He waved a hand, dismissing her concerns as insignificant.
“They’ll steal your dreams, convince you to give up what’s important to you until you’re nothing but a ghost of who you used to be…who you wanted to be.”
With an inward sigh, she shook her head. “Thanks, but no. I’m not interested. In you or your proposition.”
Ignoring the disappointment flashing in his eyes, she turned to go. Giselle was probably looking for her and would dock her pay if she didn’t get back to work.
Still, she couldn’t resist one last barb, if only to convince herself she was immune to the lure of a hot-as-fuck bad boy like Avery Preston. “Maybe you’ll have better luck convincing What’s Her Name. If you can remember it.”
Gravel crunched behind her, his steps unhurried, his chuckle mocking. “You know where to find me if you change your mind.”
“Don’t hold your breath.” But regret for the lost opportunity tightened her chest as she entered the crowded ballroom and threaded her way toward the dessert tables, leaving him and his crazy but lucrative offer behind.
Viv was plating apple rose puffs and mini lemon tarts when Jo slipped behind the dessert table. “Sorry I took so long.”
“That’s okay.” She laid out the last of the tarts. “But Gruella’s lookin’ for you.”
Jo sighed. “You know, one of these days, you’re going to slip up and call her that to her face.”
Viv shrugged, then folded her arms and cocked a brow. “Well?”
“Well, what?”
“I need deets. What did that sweet hunk o’ handsome have to say?”
