He laughs like I’ve told a joke, too drunk to catch the edge in my tone.
Marcus reaches across the table to shake Madeline’s hand, and when she extends hers, he instead brings her fingers to his lips. Gross. But I look over at her, and she’s blushing all different shades of red.
“Oh, how cute!” Jess lunges at the opportunity to get away from Marcus. “Madeline, let’s trade places so you can get to know Marcus!”
Before I can process what’s happening, she’s sliding across my lap. Her ass scrapes across my crotch, and the pressure awakens parts of me that have no business responding to Jess Lexington. I realize that she’s moving deliberately, slowly.
I use the opportunity to wrap my arms around her waist and hold her in place. My lips grazing her ear as I whisper, “If you want my dick, you just have to ask, Scoop.”
That gets her moving, but not before I catch the slight hitch in her breath.
“We should get a bottle of Dom to celebrate old friends and new! Lucas’s treat!” Jess announces, signaling a server. Alright, she wants to play?
“Honey, don’t be shy,” I counter, my hand finding the small of her back. “You can tell them we’re celebrating our six-month anniversary and you confessing your love to me.”
I smirk as I take a measured sip of my whiskey, watching her eyes narrow dangerously.
Confusion creases Marcus’s forehead. “You’ve been together six months?—”
“You love him?” Madeline asks simultaneously as the blood drains from her face.
Jess grinds her heel into my toe box, and I know that’s going to leave a mark on both my shoe and possibly my foot.
“I felt bad that you had said it so many times,” Jess says sweetly, “so I figured it was time to say it back.”
I twist my fingers through her silky hair. “Well, I know you want more. I see the searches for wedding rings on the laptop when you ‘accidentally’ leave the web browser open.” I tug her hair gently, feeling a hint of satisfaction when her pupils dilate slightly.
“Well, you did say you wanted to get married before you turn thirty,” she counters. “I know it’s coming up. I don’t know if we’ll make it, but at least you can say you’re in love with someone.”
The champagne arrives, and Jess tops off her glass. I’m not sure how many she’s had, but she’s getting braver and more handsy the longer this charade carries on. And this game of cat and mouse is unexpectedly entertaining. People nearby are starting to listen in.
“I know you didn’t meet that goal of being married by thirty, either,” I continue. “I’m truly sorry, babe. We just didn’t get together in time.” I glance at Marcus and Madeline, who are watching us like we’re engaged in a tennis match. “Hey, did you guys know Jess is older than me?”
She brings her knee up to rest her leg over my lap, but with a force that grazes sensitive territory. I grab her thigh and realize that my grip is much higher than intended. I look down and then up at her, and she raises her eyebrows challengingly.
“Yeah, I’ve always liked my women a little older,” Imanage. “They’ve got more experience handling difficult situations.”
Jess’s chest heaves slightly. Not because she’s drawn to me, no, but because she’s preparing to slowly destroy me. And I’m a sick bastard for enjoying this.
She launches into a story about me taking her to Disneyland for her birthday, knowing about her secret love of Mickey-shaped pretzels. What’s unsettling is how she’s incorporated real details, including my annual pass, which no one is supposed to know about, and my genuine affection for the Star Wars section of the park.
“And then,” she continues, leaning into me like we’re sharing an inside joke, “he bought me this ridiculous stuffed Chewbacca that’s still on our bed, even though I tease him mercilessly about it.”
I’m momentarily speechless because I do, in fact, own a stuffed Chewbacca. How does she know that?
More people join our table, and at some point, we switch to taking Vegas bomb shots because what happens in Vegas, right?
Our love story is now pulling a crowd, and a woman with a professional camera appears. I think it’s someone from the NAB Show—I’m not sure—but she asks to take our photo for social media. Jess presses against my side, lays her head on my shoulder, and beams.
“You guys are so cute together,” the photographer says. “How long have you been a couple?”
“Six months,” we answer in unison, and for a second, it feels almost real.
“My boss is going to love your story,” she says. We slideright by that comment with more backstory on our pretend relationship.
As the night progresses, our stories become more elaborate. I find myself recounting how Jess hates roses but loves tropical flowers like plumeria and hibiscus, how she always steals the covers, and how she refuses to watch the end of sad movies. None of this is true—or at least, I don’t think it is—but it rolls off my tongue with alarming authenticity.
Jess tells everyone about my supposedly secret love of cooking and how she fell for me when she found out I volunteer at an animal shelter. The first part isn’t entirely untrue. I do love to cook. How she knows this is beyond me.
