by Lila Monroe
It’s a clear spring night, and the weekend streets are busy, with friends hitting the bars and couples out on date night, and now that I have some room to breathe, the world doesn’t feel quite so weird.
Aside from the fact that the man beside me is my legal husband. Somehow, I can’t adjust to that part.
“So, this Christian guy . . .” Fitz says thoughtfully. I wince and focus on my melting cone. “If everything had worked out, you two would be married right now, and there would never have been a problem with the will.”
“That’s what Marigold thought. We had the whole thing planned out. Christian was a planner,” I add, with a lick. “He linked our google calendars on our third date.”
“Romantic,” Fitz smirks.
“It was! At the time.” I sigh again. “We were together for three years. Everything seemed so easy with him. Comfortable.”
“You sound like you’re describing your favorite sweatshirt,” Fitz teases.
“That’s what made it so nice!” I protest. “He was on my team, you know?”
“Monogamy sounds so sexy.” Fitz keeps smirking, and something about his smug expression gets under my skin.
“If you’re looking to build a committed relationship, then yes, it is,” I protest. “How else are you going to go the distance if you don’t make a good team?”
“Teamwork . . . comfortable . . .” Fitz snorts. “That’s not a love that lasts a lifetime. Don’t you want fireworks?”
I shrug. “For a fling, maybe, but fireworks are overrated. Sparks and butterflies are romantic, but they don’t last. What happens when you’re seventy and staring at each other over the breakfast table for the ten thousandth time?”
“You have the memories of all that wild sex you had to keep you warm?” Fitz replies with a grin.
I laugh. “Good luck with that. No, a real partnership is more than just ripping each other’s clothes off.”
Or is it?
I feel a tremor of uncertainty. After all, I thought I had that with Christian. He was my best friend. I thought we were going to grow old together, that it was settled.
No more bad dates. No more heartache.
Until Little Miss Crafty beckoned, and he went running.
“Do you miss him?” Fitz asks, looking over at me. I pause, thinking about it.
“Not anymore. It hurt like hell at first,” I admit, remembering. “It felt like there was a space in my life without him, that I would always feel like something was missing. Then I decided to focus on all the things I didn’t miss about him. Like how he left speckles around the sink after he shaved, and would never stand up to his mom, and thought a weekend in the Catskills was a wild adventure.”
Poppy was the one to thank for that brilliant piece of advice. By the time my list of Christian’s weak spots filled three pages, I began to see the breakup as a near-miss, rather than the end of my one true love.
I shake my head, not wanting to dwell on old memories. “What about you? Are the interviews right, or do you have some deep, dark heartbreak hidden away behind those pick-up lines?”
Fitz laughs. “Nope. What you see is what you get.”
I frown. Sure, he’s a playboy, but Fitz doesn’t seem like a total sociopath. “Come on, be honest. There has to be someone you really cared about?” I press.
He pauses. “There was this one girl . . . Katy.”
I lean closer.
“I thought I was in love with her,” Fitz continues, “but she broke my heart. And my toy truck. We were in kindergarten,” he adds with a grin.
I shove him playfully. “Asshole. Seriously? You’re a grown man, and you’ve never had a real relationship?”
“I’ve had plenty!” he objects. “But none of them broke my heart. We both knew they were just about having fun, and when the fun stopped . . . we went our separate ways. No hard feelings.”
“From you, clearly. Maybe some from them.”
“That’s not my fault,” Fitz insists. “I never lied to anyone. Some people just aren’t cut out for commitment.” He takes a lick of his melting cone.
I remember how it felt to have that mouth on mine, and damn, I forget what we were even talking about.
Those lips. That tongue . . .
Gimme more.
“Isn’t this your place?” Fitz stops on the sidewalk, and I realize we’ve walked all the way back to my apartment.
“Oh. Yup.” I’m surprised to find I’m disappointed. It’s been nice just hanging out with Fitz and getting to know him—away from our big charade. “Well, thanks. For playing along at dinner. Even if you played a little too far,” I add, giving him a look.
Fitz grins. “I had fun.”
“You would.”
He laughs. “Next time, we’ll duet.”
“Is that a promise or a threat?” I shoot back, smiling.
“I guess you’ll have to find out.” Fitz gives me a wink. “Any hot plans tonight?”
I blink, flustered. “Uh, just another episode of The Great British Bake Off.”
“Now that sounds like a hot date. Want company?” His smile turns smoldering.
Am I supposed to say no to that?
Down, girl!
“I, umm . . .” I stare at his mouth again. I’ve never found mouths sexy before. I mean, all that chewing. But Fitz’s lips are just full enough, curled at the edges in a tempting smile . . .
“No!” I blurt, remembering all my rules about keeping this professional. “But thanks again for tonight.”
“Anytime.” He leans in, and for a moment, his hand is resting on my arm, and I inhale the scent of him again: unbearably sexy. It’s enough to make me forget that this whole thing is just for show. I sway closer, hoping he’s about to replay that scorching kiss from before.
Replay. Improve on. Improvise all the way up to my bedroom . . .
But instead of ravishing me, his mouth just grazes my cheek in a chaste peck.
Clearly, I’m the only one whose imagination is running wild. Because this is all just pretend. I lurch back, blushing. “I should go,” I yelp. “Goodnight!”
I bolt from Fitz and rush inside before I can do something truly embarrassing, like grab him by the collar and kiss him senseless.
It’s just hormones, I tell myself, taking the stairs two at a time, my heart pounding.
Hormones, and horniness.
“Rebecca, hello.” Olga is checking her mail as I pass her in the hall. “Have you had a good night?”
“Uh huh!” I blurt. “Fine. Good. Great!”
“I’m glad to hear it.” Olga gives me an assessing look from behind her horn-rimmed glasses. “You’ve been awfully tense recently.”
“Well, you know, work. And . . . Just work really!” I wince. I’ve tried to keep the details of Marigold’s will and all the legal shenanigans under wraps. I don’t want to make anyone panic before they have to, but it’s been hard keeping my mouth zipped while my neighbors speculate about the future of the building. “How are you and Hunter?”
“Very well, thank you.” Olga gives a brisk nod. “He just secured a part in the chorus line of a new show. Magical Michael, I think it’s called.”
“Magic Mike?” I try not to laugh at her German pronunciation. “Wow. Good for him.”
“Yes, he’s playing Stripper Number Three.” She nods. “We’re very proud.”
“Tell him congrats from me,” I say. “Anyway, I should get to bed. Long day.” I turn to head for the stairs, but Olga’s voice follows me.
“Perhaps masturbation would help?”
I spin around. “I . . . Uh . . . WHAT?”
Did she see me and Fitz on the street out there, or am I just walking around with a flashing neon sign over my head: HORNY AND CELIBATE?
And which one of those would be less humiliating?
“With your stress levels,” Olga continues casually, as she flips through her junk mail. “Self-pleasure can be one of the most effective ways to regulate the body’s cor
tisone levels. The flood of endorphins is a natural tranquilizer.”
“Oh.” I gulp, my cheeks flushing.
“I can recommend several techniques, or toys—”
“No!” I yelp in terror. I’m all for being close to my neighbors, but even I have some boundaries—and getting sex-toy tips is a hard no. “Thanks! I’ve got it!”
I flee upstairs before she can suggest the psychological benefits of a gang-bang. But as I unlock my apartment door and step inside, I wonder if Olga maybe has the right idea about me needing to . . . relax. I mean, she always looks calm and unruffled, and judging by the noises I hear coming from her apartment on a Friday night, her cortisone levels are doing just fine.
Not that I have a Magic Mike extra to help me out with mine.
But I do have an antique claw-foot tub and a bottle of wine I’ve been saving for an emergency . . .
And I’d say “trying not to jump the bones of my sexy new husband” is about as big an emergency as it gets.
I go get the water running and pour myself a large glass of wine. And then immediately gulp it down and pour another. I find that new Alex Chase book, strip off, empty half a bottle of that expensive bubble bath Poppy got me for my birthday into the water, and then sink happily into the suds.
There. Much better.
I exhale as the hot water laps over me, relaxing for what feels like the first time since Marigold’s lawyer called me up and broke the news about Waverly Place and the massive wedding-ring-sized catch in my inheritance.
Thanks a lot, Marigold.
I wonder if she had any idea what she was getting me into. Probably not. After all, why would she? I was going to marry Christian and grow old with matching terry-cloth pajamas and his white noise machine whirring in the corner for the next fifty years.
I definitely wasn’t going to wind up hitched to a dangerously sexy man I don’t even know . . .
I put the book aside and lay back instead, closing my eyes and slipping into a memory of Fitz’s panty-melting smile—and that kiss.
The kiss!
I know I haven’t had much to compare it to recently, but even I know that five-alarm fires like that don’t come along every day. And sure, he’s probably had enough practice to make any woman swoon, but in those moments at dinner when he gazed into my eyes, I wanted to drag him off to the coat-check room and throw caution—and his clothing—to the wind.
My hands wander, just imagining it. How he would touch me . . . What that annoyingly sexy mouth would do . . .
I shiver and reach for my trusted bullet toy. Discreet, dependable, and waterproof too? What more could a girl ask for? If she doesn’t have a hot Brit to do the job in person, that is.
Buzzzz . . .
I sink back into the fantasy of Fitz. His hands sliding over my wet, naked body . . . His tongue lapping softly, right between my---
RING!
I sit up with a splash. My cellphone is ringing on the stool beside the tub, and the caller ID says it’s the hot Brit himself.
Does the man have some kind of sex radar superpower?
I shut off the bullet and grab for the handset, my body still electric and tense. “What?” I demand, my voice coming out high-pitched and flustered. “I mean, is something wrong?”
“Not at all,” Fitz replies in that accent that sends shivers down my spine. “Are you alright? You sound . . . breathless.”
“Oh, weird.” I gulp, trying to come back down to earth. “I’m just . . . reading,” I lie quickly. “There’s a fascinating article in this week’s New Yorker about the breeding habits of dung beetles!”
Yes, I’m babbling. No, I can’t stop.
“How fragrant.” Fitz sounds amused. “I just wanted to say, I know this situation is rather unusual, but you don’t have to worry. I won’t give the game away to Brett. We’ll get you that building.”
“Oh.” I exhale, relieved. “Thanks. That’s nice of you.”
“You don’t have to sound so surprised.”
I can hear Fitz’s smirk all the way across town.
“Learn to take a compliment.” I roll my eyes. “Actually, don’t. Forget I even said it. Your ego is plenty big enough already.”
“The women I’ve been with have no complaints about my size.”
I laugh. “I walked right into that one, didn’t I?”
I sit back, relaxing again, and the water sloshes up around me.
“Are you . . . in the bath?” Fitz asks, and I swear, his voice gets huskier.
I blush, even though he can’t see me. “Yes,” I admit. “Reading, like I said.”
“Oh.”
There’s a pause, and I swear my whole body tingles.
He knows I’m naked right now.
Sure, he can’t see me. But is he picturing it? Imagining me, the way I was just fantasizing about him?
My breath catches, and my free hand slides softly over my breasts again, lazily trailing lower. “What are you doing?” I ask quietly.
“I’m . . . working out.”
“At the gym?”
“No, at home. I have a rowing machine here I use.”
“Oh.”
Now it’s my turn to go quiet. Fitz, in a tight T-shirt, his muscles flexing—
No, scratch that. Fitz, shirtless, gleaming with sweat . . .
“What kind of reader are you?” he asks, and I swear there’s a flirty note in his voice. “Do you read fast, or slow?”
I swallow, my cheeks get any hotter. Is he really asking about my literary habits, or does he mean . . . ?
Something else.
“I go slow,” I say, my stomach flipping over. My fingers dip between my naked thighs. “I like to take my time with the, articles.”
“Uh huh.” Fitz makes a low, throaty sound and my stomach flips over.
Are we really doing this? I still can’t be sure.
“What about you?” I ask carefully. “Rowing seems like a strenuous sport.”
“It is,” Fitz replies, his voice still husky. “You have to stroke hard on the oars. Hard and steady. It’s all about the pacing.”
Yup. We’re really doing this.
I take another gulp of wine, my pulse racing. I know this is crazy, but technically, I’m not breaking any of my rules.
After all, my rules didn’t say anything about hot phone sex, did they?
Besides, there’s no way I’d be brave enough to do anything if he was right here in the room with me. I can barely tell my gynecologist what’s going on down there, let alone a hot guy. But like this, alone, it feels safe somehow. He can’t see how my cheeks are burning up—or how I’m touching myself, my blood already hot from his voice and how naughty this is.
“What happens when you get to the good part—of the article?” Fitz asks, and I hear his breathing get quicker. “Do you speed up, or do you keep it slow, to savor the moment?”
“I try to go slow,” I say, closing my eyes and sinking into the dark, wet heat. “But sometimes, I can’t help myself. I have to go fast until I finish.”
I swear he groans, and damn, it’s the sexiest sound I’ve ever heard.
“Are you close to the end now?” he asks softly.
“Mmmhmm. Getting there.” I take a breath, blocking out everything but the low rasp of his breathing and the urgency of my fingers.
“I’m picturing you,” he says, voice low. “Getting closer. Closer . . .”
Jesus. I don’t stop, I can’t now, until the pressure builds to breaking point, and I come apart in a swift, sweet rush.
I bite back a moan of pleasure.
Oh my God. That was . . .
What was that?!
My eyes fly open. I’m in my yellow-tiled bathroom, the bubbles already melting away. And I just totally had phone sex with Fitz.
“I have to go!” I yelp, already burning up with embarrassment. I almost drop my phone in the tub in my haste to hang up, but nothing can wash away the shame.
Or the fact I feel really, reall
y good.
7
Becca
I can’t believe I did that.
Seriously, what is wrong with me? Did they sprinkle hallucinatory drugs in that fennel pollen, or have I been single so long that it’s messing with my brain? My arrangement with Fitz is supposed to be 100% professional, and even if he does push the limits with his flirting—and makes my stomach turn to melted chocolate every time he gives me that smoldering grin—he’s all wrong for me.
Couldn’t be more wrong.
So why am I having filthy, filthy dreams about him all night long?
I wake up feeling even more confused than ever—and determined to shut down whatever is happening between us. I do NOT want to have an awkward conversation, so I decide to just pretend last night never happened. I mean, technically, all we did was discuss my reading habits while he worked out, right?
That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.
I don’t, however, want to have to play dumb to Fitz’s annoyingly handsome face, so I spend the day ducking his calls as I run around town on all my errands. Turns out, having to fake a marriage doesn’t mean the rest of your life just hits pause, and by the time I’m done with laundry, grocery shopping, and impulse-buying a vintage lamp at the sidewalk sale up the block, I can just about tell myself the whole bathtub scene is ancient history.
Until my phone lights up with a text from Fitz.
Reading anything good? ;)
I blush. How am I going to be in the same room with him again, let alone be fake married?
Luckily, I still have plenty of projects to distract me from my XXX-rated mistake. Like helping my upstairs neighbor, Howard, repaint his apartment. Howard is a historian, whose wife passed away a few years back. He’s become something of a recluse up there, with all his musty old books, so some of us offered to help him redecorate and hopefully help him see his way to a fresh start.
Plus, we’ll take any excuse for a party.
I change into my oldest overalls, tie my hair back with a red scarf, and head on up to join the fun.
“Here she is!”