–Me: And every time something new pops up, snap it up, too.
He didn’t ask why. He knows that when I want something done, it’s his job to deliver without any questions.
Given his efficiency, all the “decent” ones are likely taken by now. I’ll just let Molly stay with me until a suitable apartment turns up. After all, my place is big enough to host a marathon. Molly and I can be perfectly comfortable sharing this huge space.
What about Georgia?
Damn it. Molly mentioned something about crashing with Georgia when we left Dolce. Mom’s going to be in Europe for…well, however long she wants to eat European food and drink European wine. Still, I should have a few weeks to convince Molly to stay with me rather than my stepsister. Georgia has a studio apartment. It can’t possibly be big enough for two adults long term. Besides, it isn’t that close to the gym. The commute would be over an hour each way during rush hour.
I go downstairs. The smell of fried eggs, toasting bread and bacon greets me from the kitchen. Molly doesn’t have to cook—I made it clear I didn’t bring her here to do chores like that—but she seems to want to. Fresh coffee also permeates the air.
“Good morning.” She beams.
Great morning. “Good morning.”
“I didn’t have much time, so I just fried some eggs, sunny side up.” Molly’s smile turns a little shy. “I hope that’s okay.”
“That’s fine.”Anything you make is fine. Actually, forget the eggs. I want you for breakfast.
I picture the friendly warmth in her eyes dissipating and replaced by heat. Her mouth no longer curved so prettily as I gently pull her lower lip with my teeth, then lick and taste her. I want to push her against the fridge and grind the impossibly steely length of my dick against her, make her feel what she does to me just by existing. All she has to do is breathe and I’m hard.
I’m going too fast.It’s an effort to pull my mind from the mental porn set. She just broke up with Owen.
I take the proffered mug of coffee, making sure our fingertips brush. The loveliest shade of rose floods her cheeks, and I press a quick kiss to her forehead.
“What’s that for?” she whispers.
“In case Joey has his face pressed against one of the windows…?”
Her eyes are rounder than the plates she laid out on the counter. “Really?”
I laugh. “I doubt he’s back. But consider it practice.”
“Right. We have to look convincing in front of other people.”
“Right.” I take a sip of the coffee, wishing it was her mouth on my lips instead.
We share breakfast at the counter. She chatters about her agenda for the week, which includes apartment hunting.
“Don’t try too hard,” I say. “Mi casa es tu casa.”
“You’re so sweet.” She flushes. There’s a hint of gratitude and also an unwillingness to impose, as though depending on me would make her some unbearable burden.
I want to understand why she feels that way. I’ve never shown any hesitation to indulge her. To be honest, her discomfort with my gestures is why I’m unable to spoil her the way I want. But again, it’s too soon. I need to ease her into changing the way she views me and our relationship.
And what better way to do that than to take her out on a date she can’t refuse? “By the way, there’s a charity gala with a bachelorette auction coming up.”
“The one you mentioned at the shelter?”
“Yeah. I’d like you to come along as my date.”
Her flush deepens, and she pushes her bacon around on the plate. “I thought you already had someone in mind for that.”
“No. I wouldn’t—”
“But I guess it’d be weird if you went with a different woman when everyone is supposed to think we’re together.” She shakes her head. “Don’t know why I’m having trouble with this. Pretending we’re in love is a must in fake dating.”
There it is again. Her insistence that we’re fake-dating. Every time she says it, it feels like a rusty nail running along the inside of my stomach.
