by Caro Carson
He didn’t want to go into the crowd. He was afraid he’d be recognized, and that would be the end of Eli’s anonymous night and the resumption of the rest of E.L. Taylor’s unsatisfying life.
Mallory didn’t want to go into the crowd, either. She was afraid she’d get bumped and spill her drink.
Not the same thing.
She had no idea how lucky she was to be able to strike up a conversation with a perfect stranger who didn’t assume they already knew everything about her. No idea how lucky she was that every single person she met didn’t expect her to make their financial dreams come true, from ten thousand dollars in jewelry to a million dollars in venture capital—or even $150 in plane fuel. How lucky that she hadn’t learned to avoid strangers like the plague, the way he did.
Lucky...except the only reason she’d struck up that conversation with a stranger tonight was that she’d needed Eli—or any stranger—to discourage another man’s unwanted attention. That was why she was going to say no to hot chocolate. She was afraid she’d run into the person she’d tried to fend off before, and this time, the fake boyfriend who’d helped her would be out of sight, waiting under a pecan tree.
She gave him that no. “The hot chocolate probably only costs a dollar. Sorry, Eli, but that’s not worth the amount of time and effort I’d have to put into it. Besides, the hot chocolate would cool off too much by the time I got all the way out to the pecan trees. It’s pretty cold tonight.”
Finally, he was prepared. That was not the real reason she was declining, and he knew it. Her need outweighed his, hands down.
“In that case, we’ll have to go get the hot chocolate together. We don’t have to talk. I’ll drown my sorrows in silence.”
“If we’re going to do that, then we might as well find a seat over there in the pavilion. We can brood alone, together, there, instead of wasting time looking for the perfect pair of pecan trees while our cocoa gets cold.”
“Sharing a bench is problematic. I have it on good authority that everyone would feel sorry for a woman by my side, if I gave her the silent treatment. It might look like our date is going badly, if we don’t speak.”
It would also keep them in an area where there were more people, more chances of him being recognized. But her lips were twitching; he’d made it hard for her not to smile at him, which made it hard for him not to smile back.
“Okay, then,” she said. “We’ll talk just enough to make our fake relationship look realistic. Deal?”
“Agreed. And you’re right, it is getting colder. Put these back on.” He handed her the gloves. The satisfaction he felt as she slipped her hands into their protective leather was unreasonable.
Woman. Man. Trouble.
This wasn’t trouble. This was a cup of cocoa with an attractive stranger, a half hour out of his life, at most, until the novelty of being Eli, of being with a woman who called him Eli, wore off. She’d muse a little more about her birthday; he’d listen. It couldn’t possibly lead to trouble.
They skirted the wet sand easily as they began their quest to find the chocolate-loving nuns of St. Margaret’s.
* * *
This was the quietest date Mallory had ever been on, real or fake.
Eli hadn’t been kidding when he said they’d talk as little as necessary, without exchanging any banalities like gee, this hot chocolate is delicious. They sat a polite distance apart on a park bench under the pavilion in silence.
“Gee, this hot chocolate is delicious,” she said.
Eli continued scrutinizing everyone who ventured near their bench.
“Those nuns are absolute connoisseurs of chocolate,” she said. “Cocoa sommeliers.”
Someone drifted their way. Eli raised his cup for a drink as if he were using it to hide his face.
“Am I your fake girlfriend?”
He lowered the cup and frowned at her. His stunning eyes weren’t silver, but blue, now that they were in better lighting. Paul Newman blue.
“You appointed yourself to that role,” he said.
Paul Newman blue, minus the laugh lines.
“No, I appointed you to be my fake boyfriend. Are you now using me as a fake girlfriend?”
He had to be using her as a decoy or defense of some kind. That made so much more sense than buying her hot chocolate as an apology for being rude. She was the one who’d imposed on him, after all, barging in on his privacy by the hay bales.
She didn’t mind being imposed on in return, particularly because she had no objection to sitting beside the sexiest man she’d ever seen in person—which made him the sexiest man she’d ever seen, period. Sex appeal could be so strong that it jumped right off the silver screen—or off the television screens in various bedridden relatives’ homes. But when it was coming from a man with a powerful body—a living, breathing man who had strong hands that had warmed up these gloves—the appeal was magnified a thousand times. This evening was a little birthday present to herself, a chance to play make-believe for a while, with herself cast in the starring role as the object of adoration for six feet of glowering gorgeousness. He needed to do more adoring to make anything look plausible, though.
“Don’t get me wrong. If you think I’m enough to make a woman jealous, then I’m flattered. But you might want to look at least mildly interested in me instead of constantly looking for her.”
“There’s no her.”
“Who are you looking for, then? Am I helping you fend off a whole group of women who might start begging for your attention, otherwise?”
“Something like that.”
“No kidding? Tell me more. Is some sorority determined to descend upon you and make you their mascot—I mean, their official sweetheart?”
“God, I hope not.” He looked somewhat appalled at the idea of being attacked by a flock of nineteen-year-olds. That was a point in his favor.
The fact that she was the one doing all the talking was not. She held her disposable cup of hot chocolate in one hand and used her other to start counting off his words. “‘There’s no her. Something like that. God, I hope not.’ That’s ten. An even ten words. I don’t know who you’re on the lookout for, but she’s not going to believe this setup if you only start talking to me after you spot her. Or the group of hers. Or whatever.”
Without taking his eyes off the crowd, he slid closer and put his arm across the back of the bench, just behind her shoulders.
“Happy?” he grumbled.
“Eleven.”
He smiled around the edge of his cup before closing his lips to take a sip.
Do that again.
She was fascinated. When he didn’t have that grim set to his mouth, his lips looked softer, especially in contrast to the heavy black stubble around them. She’d never kissed a man with a beard. It had to be rough. A high school marathon make-out session would surely leave a serious red rash on the girl’s face. Good thing most boys in high school couldn’t grow a beard.
But this man had left boyhood behind long ago. A big, solid body like his would be so thrilling to snuggle into. If this were a real date, her hand would fall naturally to settle on his thigh. She’d feel more through denim than leather; his thigh would be as hard as his arm. She’d turn her face up to his, and he’d kiss her, chocolate kisses, hot kisses. Eli, her fake boyfriend with kissable lips—
“You’re staring.”
“Twelve and thirteen.” She kept her chin up, faking confidence despite her embarrassment at being busted for staring. “That’s some peripheral vision you have. You never look at me, yet you keep track of where I’m looking and what my hands are doing.” She realized her hand was resting mostly on her thigh, but her pinky finger had drifted to his jeans, a touch of authenticity to her fantasy. She moved it quickly.
“When my hands are brushing sand off my boots, I mean. You kept track of how many boots you thought I
had to brush off to make a man jealous.” She could feel her cheeks heating, which he probably could also see with his super side vision. “Which isn’t what I was doing, because there’s no him.”
“One,” he said.
It took her a second. One boot, he meant.
“Fourteen,” she answered.
He smiled again at her word count, a lift of just one corner of his mouth, which made her wonder what it would feel like to be kissed by him.
You could have found out by the haystacks.
With a sigh, Mallory straightened up and refocused on the holiday scene. A high school choir had taken the stage. Their director was conducting them with intense motions, ensuring each fa and la cut off on the beat. An overabundance of little children, most still wearing the construction-paper reindeer antlers they’d worn onstage, crowded around the fence in front of the Yule log to throw their wishes on the fire.
Wish after wish was hitting the sand. An indisputably handsome fireman was using a fire iron to whack them into the fire as he made each child laugh. If that guy wasn’t already married, then a dozen single women who dreamed about white picket fences were probably drooling over each swing. He looked like he’d make such a good dad someday—a handsome one, too. All in all, it was a wholesome little vignette, It’s a Wonderful Life if George Bailey had been a hot hunk.
Was it bad form to notice a hot fireman while on a fake date with a fake boyfriend?
Her fake boyfriend was certainly scowling at the fireman as if he were a rival. Eli had nothing to worry about. The white picket fence wasn’t Mallory’s dream. She’d spent almost all of her twenties living behind everyone else’s white picket fences.
He’s not jealous of a fireman, Mallory Ames. This isn’t a real date.
Eli simply scowled at everything, even sweet little children and their hero.
“Isn’t it cute how the kids’ faces light up when the fireman talks to them? Did you ever want to be a fireman when you grew up?”
“No.”
She waited a moment.
“Fifteen,” she said.
Nothing, not even a flicker of reaction as Eli stared hard at the bonfire scene.
She nudged his knee with hers. “Hello? Anybody home?”
He frowned a little—or rather, his usual frown deepened a little—but he closed his eyes, turned his head away, and resumed scanning the crowd.
She tried again. “It looks like he’s as much of a hero to them as Santa Claus. That’s good, since you can’t aspire to be Santa Claus. You can aspire to be a firefighter. If your hero is real, you can make a plan to become just like him.”
Just like she had. It was only a matter of weeks now before she’d arrive at work to find the office down the hall, which had been empty all fall, occupied by none other than her very own hero.
She knew what he looked like, of course. In the black-and-white photo on the back of the book jacket, he was handsome in that clean-cut, prosperous way, with short hair and a cashmere sweater over a button-down. The photo had been taken outdoors. He looked a little bit impatient. She imagined he’d paused for that photo on his way to a polo match, or perhaps just before he’d boarded his yacht. It was hard to picture a multi-millionaire like him in the administrative offices of the business college, even in one of the private offices—but he’d be there. Soon.
It was unnerving.
“Have you ever met one?” she asked Eli.
“I try to meet as few firefighters as possible.”
Mallory had meant heroes, not firefighters specifically, but Eli’s aversion to them struck her as odd. She’d assumed everyone admired firefighters, if for no other reason than they raised money for good causes by posing for calendars with kittens. Eli would probably just stick a kitten on top of a hay bale and consider the job done.
“I guess nobody wants to meet a fireman who is working. That would mean your house is on fire.”
She paused.
“And you actually own a house, so is that why you avoid them?”
Still nothing.
She sat back with a huff, which would have knocked his arm off the edge of the bench’s back behind her, had he not been as unyielding as a statue. “You know, if I were your real girlfriend, I wouldn’t put up with this cryptic crap. I’d be talking to you all the time. You’d have to talk to me.”
“How very fortunate that you’re only my fake girlfriend, and therefore we are brooding in silence together, talking only as much as necessary.”
“Was that a complete sentence? You’re positively witty when you use a complete sentence.” She batted her eyelashes. “I have faith in you, Eli. You can get the hang of this if you keep practicing tonight. Maybe you’ll go on a real date someday, and you’ll just knock her socks off with your complete sentences.”
His smile increased from a sexy half to two-thirds. Good God, the man was devastating when he smiled. So far, she was the only reason he’d smiled at all tonight, which made that sex appeal factor go off the charts. A dark and dangerous man whose smiles were exclusively for her? Happy birthday.
Maybe if he’d smiled at her like that when they’d been by the hay bales, she would have handled that almost-kiss differently. When she’d slid down his body, he’d looked at her like he wanted to make her his, right there in the night, consequences be damned. He’d given her permission to kiss him with a level of breathtaking arrogance, the kind an alpha-male bad boy would have in a woman’s fantasy.
In a fantasy, Mallory could take what she wanted from a man like that. In reality, there’d been an undeniable thrill in being seen as sexually desirable, but the chance to indulge in a moment of pure lust had been too much for her. In a split second, she’d chickened out, stepped back and laughed. After all, who would kiss a man in the flickering firelight, just because he was drop-dead gorgeous and intensely focused on her?
Not Mallory Ames, apparently.
Never let an opportunity pass you by. Of course, E.L. Taylor hadn’t been giving her advice about carnal indulgences, but she’d missed the opportunity to be kissed the way she’d fantasized about, by the kind of man she’d fantasized about.
She’d gotten a free cup of hot chocolate, instead.
E.L. Taylor would not be impressed.
Mallory watched the fireman pose for a photo with a little boy in reindeer antlers. That boy was no worse off for having met a hero. Then again, he was a child, and no one expected him to be his hero’s equal.
Never meet your heroes was her hero’s crystal-clear edict, and his advice hadn’t been wrong yet. On the other hand, he’d also said to never let an opportunity pass her by. She had to seize the chance to learn from him in real life. She couldn’t obey both nevers.
“Tell me something, Eli,” she said. “Have you ever met one of your heroes?”
Chapter Five
Never divulge more details than necessary.
—How to Taylor Your Business Plan
by E.L. Taylor
“Never.”
Eli said the word with finality.
It sounded like the perfect way to say out loud what E.L. Taylor wrote. The inflection was exactly right: he knew best, end of debate, move on to the next chapter. If Eli narrated the audio version of Mallory’s business book, she’d probably fall asleep in the dorm with it playing in her headphones every night.
She wanted to hear him say it again. “Did you say never?”
Eli gave her that look out of the corner of his eye, the one that meant he didn’t answer unnecessary questions. She’d asked, he’d answered, and he knew she’d heard him. Move on.
It was so deliciously bossy, it made her a little weak in the knees, not that she’d want him to sense that. Never show weakness.
“‘Never’ isn’t a complete sentence.” She pulled off her ski cap and shook back her loose hair. “Everyone has a hero at
some point in their life. You must have had one as a child.”
“Never.” He said it differently this time, quietly, nothing like E.L. Taylor at all. This poor stranger. He really was too grim.
She angled herself on the bench to face him more fully. “Didn’t you have a favorite teacher when you were little?”
“They were all excellent.”
That could have meant he’d had dozens of hero teachers. Instead, it sounded like he’d had none.
“What about a coach?”
“No.”
“Hey, Eli?” She leaned in close and waited until he looked up from his hot chocolate. “We’re having a conversation here. Don’t make me start counting again.”
After a moment’s staring contest, Eli smiled maybe a tenth of a smile, just a crinkling at the corner of his eyes, a look as devastating as...well, every other expression he had. She was getting used to this feeling, though, being constantly but pleasantly flushed beside him, all of her senses jazzed up by this physical awareness of him.
“I don’t need a lot of words,” he said. “In this situation, I can describe you in only one. Fearless.”
Her heart contracted. Those half smiles were sexy, but this, this, was her undoing. A confident man, admiring her confidence...which was, unfortunately, fake.
“If I were fearless, I wouldn’t be so nervous to...” Kiss you. “To meet my hero.”
“Don’t meet her,” he said, the voice of authority once more. “The timing isn’t right to meet her if you’re uncertain. It may never be right.”
“It’s not a her. How would you know whether or not I should meet mine, if you’ve never met yours? You can’t know whether it would be good or bad.”
“Touché.”
He said it curtly, quickly, toosh. He said it like he was impressed with her counterpoint, which made her feel so light she might as well be full of champagne bubbles instead of hot chocolate.