Page 37 of Fake it With Me

Another rumble of thunder. He grabbed my hand, which I told myself was just practical. He was making sure we stayed together in the storm. “Run,” he said.

We bolted out of the boathouse into the downpour. The rain hit me like a wall, immediately soaking through my clothes, cold and shocking and somehow exhilarating. Darek kept hold of my hand as we ran across the lawn toward the house, both of us already drenched.

I should have been miserable. Instead, I felt alive. Free. Like something wild had been unleashed inside me. Something that had been locked away for too long.

We were running through the rain together, hand in hand, and I was laughing despite the cold water streaming down my face. Darek glanced back at me, saw my expression, and started laughing too, both of us giddy with adrenaline and proximity and everything we weren’t saying.

Too bad it all had to stay fake. Too bad we had to maintain boundaries and keep things professional. Because right then, running through a storm with Darek Sullivan, I was ready to throw every sensible thought out the window.

I was ready to ride him like a jet ski on full throttle.

The thought hit me with startling clarity. I almost tripped over my own feet. Where had that come from? I didn’t think things like that. I was a serious PhD candidate who studied whale migration patterns, not someone who had wildly inappropriate sexual thoughts about their employer in the middle of a thunderstorm.

Except apparently I was, because I couldn’t stop thinking about it now. What would have happened if that thunder hadn’t interrupted us? What if we didn’t stop with a kiss?

We reached the house and burst through the back door into the mudroom, both of us dripping water all over the expensive tile. Darek finally released my hand to close the door behind us, shutting out the storm.

In the sudden quiet, broken only by our heavy breathing and the muffled sound of rain against the windows, the air felt charged again. We were alone in the house and soaked to the skin. I could see the way Darek’s wet shirt clung to his chest, outlining every muscle.

I forced myself to look away.

“I should change,” I said, my voice coming out breathier than I’d intended. “Before I catch pneumonia.”

“Right. Yeah. Me too.” But he didn’t move, just stood there looking at me with an intensity that made my skin feel too tight.

“Darek—”

“I know. We can’t.” He stopped, seemed to struggle with something. “Go change.”

I practically fled to my room, leaving a trail of water behind me. Once inside with the door closed, I leaned against it and tried to catch my breath.

What was wrong with me? I had almost kissed him. And I’d wanted to. God, I’d wanted to so badly I could still feel the phantom pressure of his hand on my cheek.

I peeled off my soaked clothes and stepped into the shower, turning the water as hot as I could stand. I needed to get my head straight and remember why this couldn’t happen.

There were so many reasons I had to ignore the ache in my body.

For one he was my client. We had a professional arrangement.

Secondly, I needed this money. Needed it desperately. I couldn’t afford to screw up this contract because I couldn’t keep my hands to myself.

The third reason was Daisie. Getting physically involved with Darek would make everything more complicated. When I left—because I would leave—it would hurt her even more.

Fourth, I was definitely leaving. In three weeks, I would pack up my suitcase and go back to my real life, and whatever this thing was between us would end. Getting physically involved would only make that ending more painful.

Lastly, complicating things with sex would blow the whole arrangement up. It would dissolve the moment we crossed that line.

Darek was hot as hell. That was an objective fact. He was gorgeous and successful and devoted to his daughter, and yes, I was attracted to him. Powerfully, overwhelmingly attracted to him.

But it couldn’t happen.

For all the reasons I’d just listed and probably a dozen more I wasn’t thinking of.

I finished my shower and got dressed in dry clothes, deliberately choosing something loose and unsexy. Faded jeans and an oversized hoodie. Not designer. Not name brand. Just stuff I picked up at the thrift store.

I sat at my desk and tried to focus on my research. I had notes to review, data to analyze, and a chapter outline that desperately needed work. I was doing this so I could finish my dissertation.

Not to develop feelings for Darek Sullivan.