Do I...?
Something caught in my throat, and a surprising heat washed over me, flushing not only my cheeks but also my entire body.
I was used to being propositioned. Sand and creepy guys—that was pretty much the whole Las Vegas ecosystem.
No, what happened with Vinny that morning hadn't been a one-off. I'd received plenty of bedroom invites—often accompanied by an offer of money.
But it was always transactional. You do this for me, and I'll do this for you.
Based on our earlier conversation, I'd expected Cole to make me turn down an even bigger offer. Not ask me directly if I wanted to be intimate. With him. The ruthless CEO everyone called Triple Ice. Understandably.
Though not so much right now. Had I thought Cole's gaze icy? His pale green eyes burned into mine as he waited for my answer.
What would it be like to sleep with a man like Cole Benton?
The lines of his face were so harsh and sharp—almost cruel. Would they soften if he kissed me? How would his hands feel on my body?Rough, but precise, I imagined. He'd know exactly what he wanted, which made me wonder exactly what he'd want—what he'd do...to me—if I dared to tell him yes.
Wait. No, no, no!
My good sense finally caught up with my runaway imagination.
Okay, obviously, I'd been single for way too long. Apparently, my current sex drought was making my mind go to some seriously inappropriate places.
I averted my eyes from his burning green gaze. "I think it's probably best if we keep this strictly professional. Don't you, Mr. Benton?"
Another silence. But this one felt antagonistic. Almost probing.
"Professional it is," he agreed in the end. His voice returned to all-business as he stood up and rounded the desk. "Should we shake on it?"
He stopped right beside my chair, and even though he didn't command me to stand up, I rose to my feet like a marionette on his strings.
"Sure!" His voice remained reserved, but mine pitched high, like a cartoon character.Ugh.Why could I never be as graceful in real life as I am when there's a buttload of choreography involved?
Up close, he was taller than I expected. Not that I cared that much about height. My last real boyfriend had been an inch or two shorter than my five eight, and it hadn't mattered. But Cole Benton towered over me. And he smelled good. Some expensive cologne that brought to mind chalets and private jets.
He was also weirdly magnetic. It was all I could do not to crane my neck back and stare into his pale green eyes as I awkwardly stuck out my hand and squeaked, "Deal?"
"Deal." He smoothly took it, enveloping it in his much larger one for a single, extremely firm shake. One that sent a zap of electricity through me. Up my arm and down to my...
"Okay, well, I'm so glad we can do this for Nora!" I said, shifting a bit to cover up my below-the-waist reaction to his touch. My voice sounded false and overly bright, even to my own ears, and I pulled back on my arm, desperate to put an end to this unexpected live-wire point of contact.
But Cole held on. "You do understand that when…if we're out in public, we'll have to act intimate…for my grandmother's sake?"
"Yes, yes, of course." Thank goodness for my generous dose of melanin. Otherwise, there would have been no way I could have pulled off a casual tone as I answered, "For your grandma. I totally understand, Mr. Benton."
"You should call me Cole." He finally let go of my hand, but only to pluck the ring he had offered me earlier out of the still-open box. "That's what my fiancée would call me."
This time, he took my left hand and slipped the jewelry onto my wedding finger. "This is Nora's original engagement ring. She wants you to have it."
"Oh, wow." I couldn't get over how gorgeous the ring was. One shining emerald on a simple gold band. It looked perfect on my dark-brown finger. Like it had been picked out just for me, even though we were playing pretend.
I bit down on a rising panic. Less than fifteen minutes ago, I'd walked in here with a plan to apologize profusely to Nora Benton, and somehow I'd ended up agreeing to pose as her grandson's fiancée.
I cleared my throat. Tried to speak. Then had to clear my throat again to choke out, "I understand…Cole."
His name felt like an ice cube in my mouth—awkward and, well…cold. It didn't escape me that the shortened version of Coleridge was only one letter off from being just that.
"About rehearsal." I cleared my throat again and pulled my no-longer-empty, ringless hand out of his. "How exactly am I supposed to explain this?"
