Big Rock Page 4

  “I can handle being celibate.”

  She nods. “Sure. Keep telling that to yourself.” She stops and points at me. “But I’m serious—if I do this, you better not mess around with anyone else after hours.”

  Hope bounces wildly in my chest. “Does that mean you’re saying yes?”

  She shakes her head. “Not yet. I’m just pointing out another potential roadblock for you. It’s going to be a loooong seven days for you,” she says, elbowing me in the ribs. “Besides, how are you going to manage the fact that you were basically publicly dating a few weeks ago? What are you going to tell your dad and his buyer about that? Or how about the woman you saw in Miami a month ago at the restaurant opening?”

  I wave a hand like the escape artist I am. “Leave it to the master. If anything comes up about that celebrity trainer, I’ll just deny it. No one believes the gossip rags anyway. And the Miami thing was just a friendly, posed photo. Besides, I already devised a perfect story of how we fell in love. I told my dad it happened quickly. In just a few weeks, in fact, and that I proposed to you last night because I realized after all these years that I’d been in love with you the whole time.”

  “The whole time?” she asks, lifting an eyebrow.

  I shrug playfully. “The whole damn time. I’ve been head over heels. It finally dawned on me what I was feeling, and I got down on one knee to make you mine.”

  She doesn’t say anything at first, just parts her lips, and I stare at them for longer than usual. They are really pretty lips. I mean, from an empirical point of view. As her fake fiancé, it’s good for me to be knowledgeable about all her features, including her lips.

  Assuming she says yes. She has to say yes.

  “That’s actually a sweet story,” she says, her voice completely sincere as we stand on the corner of her block, holding each other’s gaze. “A true friends-to-lovers romance?”

  “Yes,” I say quickly, breaking the eye contact because it’s a bit too much for me to handle right now. I have no clue why it feels weird, whether it’s the words or the way she looks at me.

  Or really, why I feel weird at all.

  We keep walking, and she takes a hearty gulp of her coffee. She straightens her spine and draws in a breath, and I cross my fingers that she’s about to agree.

  “I want to help you, but…” she says, her voice trailing off.

  My chest craters. Like, worse than those deflated balloons. I am out of air. I’m going to have to tell my dad the engagement ended before it even started, hang my head, cry in my soup, and claim Charlotte dumped me and broke my heart.

  “Crap,” she mutters. “Incoming douche.”

  It’s the total asshole himself. Bradley “Bend Her Over The Counter” Buckingham walks toward us. He hates me. Not that I give a shit, but he detests me because I had the audacity to advise Charlotte against buying an apartment with him. It didn’t make financial sense to go in together in this building when other residences in the hood were increasing in value faster.

  He’s about six feet, which makes him two inches shorter than me. He has blondish-red hair, broad shoulders, and the cheesy grin of a vacuum cleaner salesman. He works in PR. He’s senior VP of Communications for a huge pharmaceutical company that’s always under fire. King of Spin. Ace of Liars. Captain of Scum.

  “Charlotte!” he calls out, waving to her. “Did you get the balloons?”

  He pulls up next to us, barely making eye contact with me.

  “They didn’t fit in the elevator, but it really doesn’t matter. You need to stop sending me gifts. It’s over with us. In fact,” she says, and reaches out to grab my free hand, threading her fingers through mine and surprising the fuck out of me, since she’s not a hand-holder, “I’m engaged to Spencer now.”

  Whoa.

  That surprise over her holding my hand? It’s nothing compared to the surprise from what comes next.

  She thrusts her coffee cup at Bradley, and in the blink of an eye she wraps her hands around my neck, and presses her lips to mine.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Charlotte is kissing me.

  On the streets of New York.

  Her lips are on mine.

  She tastes fantastic.

  Like cream and sugar and coffee and sweetness. Like all the good things in the world. Like I imagined she’d taste.

  Not that I’ve been thinking about kissing my best friend.

  But, look, you can’t help where your mind wanders sometimes as a guy. Any man who is friends with a woman has taken the old imagination out for a stroll to Kissing Avenue, then Lovers Lane, then Fucking Street.

  Which is exactly what I’m going to be visiting in Ye Olde Brain if she keeps brushing those lips softly against mine in this fluttery¸ lingering kind of kiss. Because it is getting harder to think about anything other than turning up the volume on this lip-lock.

  A lot harder.

  She lets out the tiniest little noise—like a sigh, or a gasp, or an almost-but-not-quite moan. And if she does that again, I will be pushing her against the slate-gray brick wall of her building, caging her in, sliding my hands along her sides and turning this into a full-body kiss.

  Because she is too fucking sexy for her own good.

  For my good.

  She lets go of my lips.

  My hard-on doesn’t get the message to chill out. It’s still pointing in her direction, wanting more. I cycle to my certified best buzzkill, picturing sweaty basketball players, and it goes down as Charlotte flashes a devilishly satisfied grin at Bradley.

  While Charlotte was busy devouring me on Lexington Avenue, Bradley’s jaw had become dislodged from his face and fell to the ground.

  Excellent.

  “We got engaged last night. And I couldn’t be happier,” she says, snuggling up next to me and snaking an arm around my waist.

  He tries to speak, but fish air bubbles come out instead.

  Oh, this is priceless. I stare down at my shoes. I’m not smirking right now. I swear I haven’t got a big-ass grin on my face. I’m just the innocent bystander who got lip-smacked by the goddess.

  “And like I said, it would be awesome if you could stop assaulting me with balloons and teddy bears and chocolate-covered cherries,” she says, and I make a quiet snort. Charlotte can’t stand chocolate-covered cherries. How does he not know this?

  “I don’t even like them,” she says to Bradley, as she inches her fingers tighter around my waist. So tight that for a sliver of a second it seems like…like she’s copping a feel of my abs.

  Okay.

  That’s not even remotely a problem at all. Those rock-solid abs are there for your pleasure, m’lady.

  “I had no idea you two were involved,” Bradley says. I look up to see the wheels turning in his head. “Were you always?”

  Charlotte’s expression morphs into one of complete, slack-jawed shock. “What did you just say?”

  He’s graduated. I didn’t think it was possible. But he just earned the title of Master Asshole.

  Time to step in.

  “No, Bradley. It’s all new. It’s all quite recent,” I say, meeting his eyes. “And to be honest, I really owe you a huge debt of thanks. If it wasn’t for you, and those quality control tests you performed on the kitchen counter, we might never have had the chance to be together. So thank you for fucking up a good thing with the most amazing woman in the world. ’Cause now she’s mine.” Then to bust his chops one more time, I drag her against me caveman-style, bend her backward, and kiss her hard again.

  In seconds, I pull her up, wave good-bye to her ex, and guide her into her building.

  I’m not sure if she’s more shocked by what he just said, what I just did, or by her own spur-of-the-moment decision, but as soon as we’re in the elevator, she turns to me, and shrugs happily. “I guess I’m playing your fiancée for the next week, Snuffaluffagus. We’ve got to buy a ring at two, and I’m going to require a full debrief.”

  There are other things I’d like to
debrief right now. But this works too.

  * * *

  I do my best work in the bedroom. This is completely my domain. So it should be no big deal that she asked me to wait here. But something about being in Charlotte’s bedroom is wigging me out.

  Mostly because there’s nudity transpiring mere feet away.

  She’s taking a shower, and no matter how you slice them, New York apartments are thimble size. Let me spell this out—There is a wet, naked, hot woman in a ten-foot radius.

  Got it? Okay. Moving on.

  I pick up a picture frame on her sky blue bureau, a photo of the dog her parents have. A fluffy brown summa dog—some of this, some of that. I’m going to focus on this mutt. Zero in on him. Look at his tail. Check out his ears. Yup, this picture is doing the trick. It is helping me not to linger on the naked woman and how well she kisses.

  Or how much I liked it.

  Why the fuck did I like it so much?

  Of course you liked it, idiot. You’re a straight male and a pretty woman kisses you—you’d be stupid not to like it. End of story. Doesn’t mean anything. Stop analyzing.

  Especially since she just turned off the shower.

  Maybe she forgot a towel. Maybe she’ll open the door a crack, and ask me to grab one for her.

  I smack my forehead. Get it together, Holiday.

  I set down the picture, inhale deeply, and straighten my shoulders. The door creaks open. She steps out of the bathroom wearing only a white fluffy towel wrapped above her breasts.

  “You might be wondering why I asked you to wait in my bedroom instead of the living room,” she says, in the most matter-of-fact of tones.

  I have no clue how she can be talking like we’re having a business transaction while droplets of water slide down her bare legs. But I’m a strong man. I can handle this. I’m not tempted at all by my best friend. My dick, however, begs to differ, the traitorous prick.

  “The thought crossed my mind,” I say, as I lean against the bureau, striking a casual pose.

  “Because if you’re my fiancé, you need to be comfortable with me being naked,” she says with a crisp nod.

  Shit, she’s going to do it. She’s going to drop the towel. She’s going to make us practice fucking. I am the luckiest man on the face of the earth.

  Wait. No. I can’t fuck my best friend. I absolutely, positively, can’t screw Charlotte. Even if she tosses the towel on the floor and begs me to.

  I lace my fingers together behind my back, linking my twitchy hands.

  “Okay, so you’re getting naked,” I say, doing my best to imitate her cool-as-a-cucumber tone, which is throwing me off big time.

  “No. It’s the idea of me naked,” she corrects.

  I give her a pointed look. “Seems to me it’s both the idea and the reality.”

  “Fine, fine. They’re one and the same, and it’s part of the debrief.”

  “Is this the exam portion?”

  She walks past me, her arm brushing against mine before she yanks open the top drawer of the bureau. “Yes. This is more like the practical lab instruction.”

  “And this is because you somehow think we’re going to be required to be naked together in front of Mr. Offerman in order to pull this off? This isn’t like some reality show fake engagement where we have to pass certain skills in an obstacle course. You know that, right?”

  She nods as she hunts around in the drawer. “I’m aware of that. I see this as more like the Newlywed Game.”

  “And in this version we’re quizzed on how accustomed I am to the idea of you naked and vice versa?”

  Her breath hitches when I say that—vice versa.

  I don’t know what to make of that small gasp…like if it means something about the idea of me au naturel.

  She spins around and holds up two pairs of panties, one in each hand. “Quick. Do you prefer it when your fiancée wears the black lace thong?” She waggles a scrap of silky-looking fabric that is so hot my face might be engulfed in flames right now because Charlotte owns that? “Or do you prefer her in the white side-string bikini?” She waves the white pair before my eyes, and all I can see is a tiny triangular patch of fabric that’s the slightest bit see-through.

  Forget the flames. I am a fucking inferno right now knowing she owns this too. White panties that reveal pretty much everything.

  Lord have mercy.

  If a woman I was dating wore those panties, they wouldn’t be on her. They’d be in my teeth as I pulled them off. I can’t do anything but stare at her lingerie as my blood heats to surface-of-Mercury levels.

  Charlotte tilts her head and shoots me an expectant look. “Which one do you prefer your fiancée in?”

  I haven’t answered her yet. I’m just trying to get the blood flowing from other parts of my anatomy back to my brain.

  “Nothing,” I say, intending it as a jokey retort, but my throat is dry and scratchy, so the words come out in a harsh growl.

  She lifts an eyebrow, completely unperturbed. “Nothing? Really? Okay then,” she says, and swivels around, stuffing the underthings back in the bureau, grabbing a bra, then closing the drawer with a gentle ping. “That makes things easier. I’ll be right back.”

  She touches my shoulder playfully with her index finger, yanks open her closet, grabs something from a hanger, and returns to the bathroom. As she shuts the door, I sink down on the bed and breathe out hard. I drop my forehead to my palm. What the hell kind of test was that? That was a feat of strength, if I ever experienced one.

  But I don’t have time to figure it out because twenty seconds later, she opens the bathroom door and says, “What do you think?”

  She’s wearing a cranberry red skirt that falls to her knees and kind of flares out as she twirls around, along with a black silky tank. “Does this work for you to take me ring shopping?”

  I point at her midsection, then lower. “You’re really not wearing underwear?”

  Her eyes sparkle with mischief. “My fiancé told me he prefers me in…” She steps closer, drops a hand to my shoulder, and brings her lips to my ear to whisper, “Nothing.”

  And now, ladies and gentlemen, my cock is officially saluting my best friend, the Commando Temptress. She pops back into her closet, emerges with a pair of black heels, and slips them on.

  Kill me now.

  Her legs look insanely hot, and knowing that the treasure at the apex of her thighs is bare is going to drive me crazy. I drag both hands through my hair like bulldozers. “Okay, you win the first feat of strength.” I march over to her bureau where I open the top drawer, grab the bikini underwear and wave it like a white flag. “I’m surrendering.”

  She furrows her brow. “That’s all it takes for you to bow out? I thought you wanted and needed me to be your fiancée?”

  “I do. I absolutely do. But you cannot go out without underwear on. You cannot waltz around New York stark naked under that skirt. Put these on,” I say, thrusting them at her.

  Her lips quirk up in a grin. The corners seem to twitch back and forth. I swear her eyes say I told you so.

  I hold my hands out wide. “Okay, Cheshire Cat. What canary did you eat?”

  She takes the panties in her hand, grabs my arm, and tugs me into the bathroom. She points at the mirror. There’s a note on it, written in red lipstick. Spencer will make me put on the white bikinis.

  And I crack up—deep, big chuckles that come from the very heart of me. I point a finger at her. “And you said you weren’t a good liar.”

  She drops her jaw, then places her hand on her chest. “I wasn’t lying. That’s the truth, written in red lipstick two minutes ago, and I was right. Admit it.”

  “You were playing me.”

  “No. I was proving to myself that I could pull off being your fiancée,” she says with a wicked grin, bumping me with her hip. The look in her eyes is a cocktail mix of pride and amusement. “I wanted to see if we knew each other well.” She pauses before she says the next thing, lowering her voice. �
��And intimately.”

  Then she steps into the panties.

  In front of me.

  With her heels on.

  Over one ankle, then the other, then she slides them seductively up her smooth, strong legs. My eyes track her the whole time. I couldn’t look away if I tried, and I’m beginning to accept that I’m just gonna be sporting wood even more than usual during this next week. I figure that’s normal, right? What red-blooded man could be in close proximity to a gorgeous woman who’s putting on a pair of see-through—

  My brain stops processing words. I swallow dryly.

  The panties are over her knees. They’re gliding up her thighs. Making their way to her bare—

  “Close your eyes,” she whispers.

  And because I’m a gentleman, I do. I see black and silvery stars behind my lids, but I’m picturing everything I’m missing right now. Yup. Round-the-clock pocket rocket. Just resign myself to perpetual wood. Can’t fight these things. No need to even try.

  “You can open them,” she says, and I oblige. She points to the toilet seat. “Take a seat, partner. Let’s debrief as I do my hair and makeup.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  We review the vitals.

  She’s a sheet-hogger. I sleep naked. She doesn’t like sharing the bathroom sink at the same time. I couldn’t care less if she spits out toothpaste while I’m brushing. She has more than two dozen different lotions from The Body Shop and wears a different one each day of the week.

  “Obviously, I don’t use lotion,” I say, gesturing to the silver bathroom cart full of orange blossom, honey vanilla, coconut island, and every other flavor of body rub under the sun. “And again, I don’t think anyone will be quizzing us on whether I know what kind of lotion you wear.”

  “I know that,” she says as she plugs in a hair dryer. “But the point is, I want to feel like we know these things about each other so it will be believable that we’d be engaged. For instance, it takes me five minutes to dry my hair.”