“So… we go on a few dates before the gala. Get comfortable with each other. Figure out our story, how we met, how long we’ve been together, all that.”
“We could tell them the truth about how we met,” I suggest. “The Uber ride. That’s actually kind of a great meet-cute.”
“Cute,” he repeats, and there’s definitely amusement in his voice now. “Never thought I’d hear that word applied to anything involving me.”
I look at him, really look at him. At the way his massive shoulders fill out that T-shirt, at the ink crawling up his arms, atthe beard that should make him look intimidating but somehow makes him look warm. Real. Human.
“You’d be surprised,” I murmur before I can stop myself.
His eyes lock onto mine, and the intensity there steals my breath. The coffee shop, the other customers, Tiffany hovering somewhere in my peripheral vision, it all fades away until there’s just him and me and this moment stretching between us like taffy.
“Marley,” he says, and hearing my actual name in that deep, rough voice does something to me. Something that has no business happening when this is supposed to be fake.
“Yeah?”
“About what I said earlier. About Derek.” He sets down his coffee, and I track the movement of his hands, big, capable hands that I suddenly, desperately want to hold. “He’s a fucking idiot for letting you go. And for the record? Your curves?” His gaze drops briefly, appreciatively, before meeting mine again. “They’re not something to apologize for. They’re part of what makes you stunning.”
Heat floods my cheeks. My entire body feels as if I’m sitting under a spotlight, exposed and seen in a way I haven’t been in years.
Maybe ever.
“I…” I swallow hard. “Derek said I needed to lose weight. That I was embarrassing him in front of his colleagues.”
Nitro’s expression goes thunderous. “Where does he live? I wanna talk.”
Despite everything, I laugh. It bursts out of me unexpectedly, breaking some of the tension coiling in my chest. “You can’t beat up my ex-boyfriend.”
“Can’t or shouldn’t?” He’s smiling now, too, but there’s still that protective edge underlying his words.
“Both.”
“Fine.” He picks up his coffee again. “But if he so much as looks at you wrong at that gala—”
“You’ll behave like a perfect gentleman,” I finish firmly, even though the caveman protectiveness is doing absolutely nothing to help my growing Nitro problem.
“I’ll behave like a devoted boyfriend,” he corrects, and the word ‘boyfriend’ sends a fresh wave of butterflies through my stomach.
Right.
Fake boyfriend.
Right.
Pretend relationship.
This isn’t real, Marley. I need to remember that.
“So…” I look down at my napkin, at my chicken-scratch list of rules that suddenly seems woefully inadequate. “Practice dates. How many were you thinking?”
“When is the gala?”
“Two weeks from tonight.”
Nitro nods slowly, calculating. “Then, at least three practice dates. Maybe four. We need to look comfortable together, like we’ve been doing this for a while.”
“Three or four dates.” I write that down, then look up at him. “What kind of dates?”
“Whatever you want,” he says it like it’s simple, like I have all the power here. “Dinner? Movie? Something else?”
