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It was a note. Not a declaration of love. Not a marriage proposal. Not even particularly good stationery. And yet I'd kept it.

I was both relieved and disappointed that he'd been gone. Relieved because I hadn't had to navigate the dreaded morning after. Disappointed because waking up beside Damon Lockhart had become one of my favorite things, right up there with falling asleep in his arms.

Which was a deeply disturbing development for a woman who'd spent years believing sharing a bed was an unnecessary complication.

Every time the dining room doors opened, my stomach dropped. Every time the person walking through wasn't Damon, I exhaled. I was acting like a teenager waiting for her crush to show up at prom.

Except I was a grown woman. With a mortgage. And a corporate board. And a very expensive therapist I clearly wasn't seeing often enough.

We'd agreed last night wouldn't change anything. Which sounded mature. Reasonable. Adult. Unfortunately, human emotions didn't operate according to contractual agreements.

What if everyone was right about him?

What if Damon really was the charming, commitment-averse playboy everyone said he was?

He'd spent two years flirting with me. Two years of teasing, suggestive comments, and that infuriating smile. I'd always assumed it was harmless. That he flirted with everyone. That his attention wasn't personal. It was one of the reasons I'd asked him to pretend to be my boyfriend in the first place.

He didn't take relationships seriously. Neither did I. Perfect arrangement.

Except last night hadn't felt like an arrangement. It hadn't felt casual. It had felt intimate. Real.

And that scared the hell out of me.

Because what if I'd finally given him what he'd been chasing?

What if the chase was over?

What if he moved on to the next woman with a pulse and set of ovaries?

The thought made my stomach twist. Which was absurd. I had no claim to him. He didn't owe me anything. We'd agreed on that.

So why did the idea of him even flirting with another woman make me feel like I was one bad decision away from a mugshot?

"What's wrong with you?"

I looked up. My mother was studying me over her coffee cup.

"Nothing." The word came out approximately three octaves too high.

Her eyes narrowed. "You seem jumpy."

I lifted my mug. "Fourth cup."

"Since when do you drink four cups of coffee before nine?"

"Since today."

She pursed her lips. I hated that look. It meant her internal B.S. detector had started pinging.

"Where's your boyfriend?"

My stomach dropped. "He had some work to catch up on."

Which was true. According to his note. Of course, there was also the possibility that he'd woken up, realized he'd slept with the woman he'd agreed to fake-date, and decided he'd rather spend the morning shoveling horse manure.

Honestly, I couldn't blame him. This entire situation was my fault. I'd invented a boyfriend to keep my cousin from worrying about me during her wedding weekend.

At least, that was the story I kept telling myself. But what if my intentions hadn't been noble? What if I'd done it because I couldn't stand the idea of showing up alone?