As my breasts flatten against his chest, I have to curl my hands into fists to keep from pulling him down for a kiss.
Damn, why does he have to smell so good?
“Don’t worry, you’ll be fine.” I lift my chin, ignoring the way my lips tingle as they shift closer to his. “Just tell me when to pick you up after practice tomorrow afternoon.”
He’s quiet, studying me for a beat before apparently deciding to play along. “Three o’clock. By the team exit near lot G.”
I nod. “Perfect, I’ll be there with bells on. Wear something durable. Something you can work in and don’t mind getting dirty.”
“I rarely mind getting dirty,” he murmurs, the husky note in his voice making my nipples pull tight. “Idomind getting in trouble, though. I seriously can’t afford any more of that right now, Strawberry.”
Trouble…
I’min trouble. Me and my traitorous nipples.
And the traitorous swoony feelings in my chest.
And the traitorous hands currently skimming down Nix’s ribs to linger at his waist as I whisper, “I’ve got your back, Baylor. Trust me. Okay?”
He pulls me even closer, into something between a hug and the prelude to a kiss, and suddenly all I can think about is how desperate I am to taste him. In that moment, if he’d dropped his mouth to mine, I wouldn’t have put up a fight.
I wouldn’t have even thought to try.
But…he doesn’t.
He draws in a breath, holds it, then pulls away with a nod. “All right.”
“Good,” I say, wobbling a little as I step back and nod back toward the parking lot. “I should go. I have some catering proposals to review before tomorrow. I just signed on to organize the gala for the indie film festival that’s launching in December.”
“Congratulations,” he says, his voice husky, hungry.
Nearly as hungry as I feel as I take another step away from his delicious body.
“Thanks, so…” I clear my throat and force a non-horny smile. “See you tomorrow at three.”
“Tomorrow,” he promises.
As I walk away, I can’t deny how excited I am for him to keep that promise, and not just because I’m looking forward to seeing him play the fish out of water for the cameras.
No, my anticipation is of a more personal nature.
So far, I’m doing a truly shitty job of not lusting after my fake boyfriend.
Six
NIX
Practice runs long.
Coach keeps us drilling power plays until my shoulders burn, and Jean-Louis starts bitching in rapid-fire French. By the time I hit the showers, it’s pushing three, and I’m going to be late.
I dress fast—old jeans, black T-shirt that I don’t mind getting ruined, still damp hair—and push through the team exit at 3:07.
The parking lot bakes under the October sun, heat shimmering off the asphalt. I scan for Charlotte’s car, then realize I have no idea what she drives.
We truly barely know each other.
So why does my chest loosen in a way that feels like relief the second I spy her wavy strawberry blond hair?
