“Why you telling me this?” I managed.
“Because I want there to be no lies between us. I am attracted to you, Willow. As I suspect you are attracted to me as well.”
I stammered, prepared to lie but my mouth snapped shut because it was true. I nodded, not trusting what might drop from my lips.
“I think if we are aware of potential problems, we’ll be better suited to handle any complications.”
“Complications such as…”
“Such as taking things too far when we know this is fake and will end,” he answered.
“Oh, right, of course,” I said, hating that his answer felt like a wet blanket thrown between us. “Makes sense to be aware.”
But he remained too close to me, in my personal space, as if he was reluctant to follow his own advice. “To that end, we should practice our kiss.”
Somehow, I nodded in agreement but it felt more like my head wobbling on my neck.
His lips brushed mine in a soft, tender press that immediately stole my breath. It was everything we were technically agreeing to —no tongue, no obscene show of lusty promise —but hot damn, it carried a punch that went straight to my pelvis.
I’m talking, permission-granted to take my clothes off right now and fuck me against your fancydesk while your secretary covers her ears against the primal grunts and groans that follow.
His phone buzzed. He ignored it, going for another pass as I leaned into him. It buzzed again, insistent.
I felt his irritation as he he pulled it out, glance at the screen, and his energy shifted—the moment popped as if we'd been standing in a bubble that burst. "I think we've covered most of the bases for now. Guessing by your current wardrobe, you’re going to need a dress for the gala.”
"Are you saying this isn't good enough?" I teased, twirling in my Target dress. I kicked out my foot, showing off my worn sneakers. "How about these kicks? I call it thrift store chic."
"Richard Ashford's charity gala is black-tie. You'll need appropriate attire." He pulled out his wallet, extracted a credit card. "Go to Nordstrom. Buy whatever you need."
I stared at the card. Did not expect that. "I can't use your credit card."
"Why not?"
"I'm not your real girlfriend. Accepting money from you crosses a line. And?—"
"You're proud and stubborn and would rather wear a Target dress to a gala than accept help." He pressed the card into my hand. "This is part of the arrangement. You're doing me a favor. Let me return it."
The card felt dangerous. As if accepting it meant accepting more than money.
"One dress," I said.
"Whatever you need,” he corrected sternly. “It's more efficient if you have what you need when I need you to have them."
"Callum—"
"Three months, Willow. Three months of pretending we're a thing. The least I can do is make sure you're dressed appropriately for what I’m requiring.”
“Um, I don’t know. I’ll need to pay you back for whatever you spend.”
"Don't be ridiculous. You don't have the salary for that kind of offer—I don't need a thirty-year payment plan for a few articles of clothing."
"Okay, ouch." I glowered at him even as I flipped the card between my fingers, trying not to feel like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. "So, you're cool if I just throw everything in my closet away and start fresh from bras to shoes?"
"I'd prefer it." He nodded, stepped back, and I felt the loss of his heat as a physical chill. "I'll pick you up Friday at six. The gala starts at seven."
Well, then. Guess who's going shopping.
“You can pick me up at my apartment but only if you promise not to pass judgment on where I live. Asyou like pointing out…I’m not exactly pulling six figures.”
