“Absolutely,” Nitro agrees, but there’s something in his smile that says he knows I’m already going to say yes. “Think about it. Take your time.”
“But not too much time,” Sage interjects. “The gala is in three weeks, and if you’re going to do this, we need to sell it. Which means you two actually need to spend time together. Get to know each other. Build chemistry.”
“We have plenty of chemistry,” Nitro states matter-of-factly, his eyes boring into mine.
I swallow hard, clenching my thighs together, my clit throbbing uncontrollably, letting me know I am alive.
Sweet baby Jesus.
“Hell yeah, you do,” Sage agrees. “But Derek won’t believe it unless you two look like you’ve been together for a while. So that means dates…lotsof dates.”
My stomach does a weird flip at the word ‘dates,’ and I take a sip of coffee to hide my expression.
Fake dating a man I barely know to a work gala is already a bad idea. Fake-dating a man I barely know to a work gala when your ex is also your boss seems like a terrible idea.
But terrible ideas have never looked so damn good.
“Okay,” I hear myself say. “Let’s think about it.”
Nitro’s smile widens. “Deal.”
We eat breakfast in comfortable chaos, Sage making increasingly inappropriate comments about Derek’s probable shortcomings, Nitro laughing in this low, rough way that makes my toes curl, and me trying to wrap my head around the fact that my life has turned into some kind of rom-com in the space of a week.
At some point, the conversation drifts away from Derek and the gala, into easier territory.
“So how old are you anyway?” Sage asks Nitro around a mouthful of pancake. “Because you’ve got that whole silver-fox-in-training vibe going on, but you also look as though you could be anywhere from thirty to fifty.”
I nearly choke on my coffee. “Sage!”
“What? It’s a valid question!” She turns to Nitro, completely shameless. “How old are you, Uber man?”
Nitro looks amused rather than offended. “Old enough to know better,” he says, shooting me a look that makes my stomach flip. “Young enough to not care.”
“That’s not an answer,” Sage points out.
“No,” he agrees. “It’s not.”
I’m fascinated by the way he deflects, smooth and easy, like he’s done it a thousand times before. Like his age, he doesn’t particularly want to discuss it, but he’s not uncomfortable with it either.
“Are you like… forty?” Sage presses, her head tilted to the side.
“Sage, stop interrogating him,” I mutter, because I already know how old he is.
Nitro grins. “I’m forty-three.”
Sage widens her eyes. “Ohh… Daddy vibes, Marley. I like it.”
“Jesus, Sage,” I mumble as Nitro shakes his head and continues eating.
But the fact remains, he is older.
Does it matter?
It shouldn’t matter.
It doesn’t, I realize.
It really, really doesn’t.
