Right.
Of course.
I sink back into my seat a little and nod. “Hell yeah, we can. I got your back.”
She bites and holds her bottom lip between her teeth with a slight nod. “But we need more practice before the big day, right?”
I wave my hands through the air. “I am yours to do with as you see fit, Small Town.”
She snorts out a laugh, rolling her eyes. She climbs out, closing the door, then ducks down to look through the window. “Thank you. Honestly, thank you, Damon. You don’t need to help me with this, but I truly appreciate it.”
Hearing her call me by my first name sounds strange, but somehow, on her lips, it doesn’t irritate me like it usually does. A slight grin crosses my lips, and I gesture toward Sage’s front door. “It’s my pleasure… now head on inside. I’m not leaving till I know you made it in safely.”
Marley rolls her eyes again, then spins and heads for the front door. The way her ass moves as she walks makes me want to jump out of the car, bend her over my hood, and fuck her senseless.
But we’re just pretending.
At least she is.
As she opens the front door, she gives me a little wave, and I shoot two fingers up in a half wave, half salute, then she closes the door behind her.
I let out a frustrated groan as I sink into my seat, banging my head against the headrest. “What the fuck are you doing, dickhead?”
I sit up and start my car, the engine roars beneath me before I tear down the open road, trying to outrun the truth I already know…
I’m in hot water, and it’s only getting hotter.
But Marley, she’s the kind of heat a man walks into willingly.
One look from her, one laugh, and I’d let her burn me alive.
So maybe this is the part where I stop fighting it…
And jump headfirst into the fire.
Chapter Eight
MARLEY
Two Days Later
The Grind is busier than usual for a Saturday morning, the espresso machine hissing and gurgling as if it’s personally offended by the weekend crowd. I’m sitting at a corner table, my third coffee going cold while I compulsively check my phone every thirty seconds like some caffeinated lunatic.
Because Nitro texted me last night.
Nitro the Nice Uber Guy:Meet me at The Grind. 10 a.m. We need to talk about the plan.
The plan.
Right.
The fake-dating plan that I somehow agreed to in a moment of wine-drunk vulnerability and post-breakup spite. The plan where I pretend to be the girlfriend of a six-foot-four mountain of a man, who makes my pulse race every time he looks at me with those brilliant green eyes.
What could possibly go wrong?
Everything.
Literally every damn thing.
