by Jean Oram
Plus, according to Logan, things were escalating. He’d found Olivia’s Porsche, which they’d left outside the town offices, papered by the protesters. The entire car had been covered with glued-on flyers protesting corporate greed, toxins, environmental issues, and pretty much anything else ever protested in the free world. He only hoped his brother-in-law Frankie, who owned a custom body shop, could save the paint job before Olivia saw her car again.
Logan signed off, reminding Devon to lock his doors. The man would be sleeping in his car, watching the house, and had already taken the liberty of adding a few surveillance cameras and motion detectors.
Things were getting serious and Devon joked that Logan should add tracers to their cars, as well. He had a feeling when Logan didn’t reply that there would be tracking devices on their cars come morning. But if that helped keep Olivia protected, then it was well worth it.
Devon paced the hallway outside their bedrooms, trying to figure out how to get a step ahead of Barry. A big step. An election-winning step. Because with Olivia standing up for herself in front of her father? Well, she needed a win. And those protesters needed to see that she couldn’t be cowed.
“Devon?” It was Olivia calling him through her closed bedroom door.
He let himself into her room and froze. She was in that nightie created for every male fantasy, sitting on the futon, her back to him. Surely there was a different nightgown in her suitcase that she could wear instead of this piece of temptation?
“Yeah?” he asked, his voice cracking. Nice going, body. Way to make him sound like a man.
“Do you trust me?” She looked at him over her shoulder, her brow furrowed with sorrow.
He was at her side before he could think better of it, her hand in his.
“Of course. You have a solid plan. And I think having a sit-down with the leader of the protest group will solve a lot.” But so would running Barry out of town, if that had been his style.
“No.” Olivia pressed her bare knee into the side of his leg, the short nightie riding so high he could almost see her panties. Not that he was looking. Much. That was a lot of creamy inner thigh, though. Enough to distract any man, prevent him from looking his woman in the eye.
Not his woman. Roger that. But a few right moves and she could be.
How horrible was he? She was in a tricky place right now, vulnerable. He needed to be a gentleman. Look up.
Man, she had beautiful cleavage. So round and—
“My eyes are up here, Devon.”
“Your nightie is enough to give any man—sorry.” Not appropriate. Had to be nice, adultish and all that. Prove himself. No jokes.
“I meant, do you trust me?”
Two days ago the answer would have been a heartfelt “no way.” But since then he’d…what? Changed his mind?
She pulled away as he pondered the question.
“I care, Olivia,” he said, grabbing her hand. “I care what you think. I care that you’re scared, hurt and frustrated right now. When I let you give me a makeover, I let you in. I couldn’t do that if I didn’t trust you. Yeah, you’re not perfect, but that’s what I like best about you. You do your best to get back up when you’ve been knocked down, and oddly enough, I think you might actually have my best interests at heart.”
Her lips were on his before he could register the fact that her exquisite, barely clad body was wrapping itself around his, pushing him back against the bed with a familiarity that broke through his ability to resist. He couldn’t keep his hands to himself, his fingers slipping under her garment, up over her rib cage before he forced them back down to her waist. She kissed him with tongue and body, leaving him shaking with pent-up desire he wasn’t sure he should release.
Her hands were petting his chest, untucking his shirt, smoothing their way over his abs, cupping his face. Everywhere. Desperate. Cool and familiar. She panted and gasped, spurring him on, and there were too many sweet memories of her letting go as they worked their way to nirvana, too much still simmering between them despite everything that had separated them, hurt them. He could practically taste the lethal doses of desire and attraction, but there was also a hint of something else. Something bitter, and much more devastating on a soul level.
He couldn’t afford to lose this game. Not a second time. He wasn’t strong enough.
He rolled her off him and stood, locking his hands behind his head as he sucked in a deep breath. His new position was worse. Now he could see her in all her sexy, tempting glory, stretched out on the bed, reminding him of how utterly intoxicating and consuming she could be. Her thighs seemed as though they went on forever. Except he knew exactly where they ended and exactly what that spot tasted like.
Seeing her in this sexy little number meant to drive a man wild with its teasing, seductive innocence, her lips plump from their bruising kisses—it did things to his mind that he had no right to act on, and might never again. And yet he’d never met a woman as curvaceous, clever and charming, and Olivia…she just got under his skin in a way that made everything in his life wholly about her.
Never again. She was like one of those traps you saw in movies where the forest floor suddenly dropped out, sending you into an inescapable hole.
She bit her bottom lip.
Man, that drove him nuts.
Olivia had given him the green light. She was inviting him in. Choosing him.
And he was standing on the opposite side of the room like a scared fool.
She sat up, turning her back to him once more, apologizing over her shoulder, her eyes cast down. Her massive curls brushed her bare skin and he wasn’t sure if she knew the effect, but it made him want to sweep those locks off the nape of her neck and trail kisses down to her shoulder blades. He still remembered all the ways to make her tremble and call out his name, fingernails dug deep into his back.
But the one thing he couldn’t remember was why they couldn’t have that again. Why he was resisting.
“What would you do if you were me?” Devon asked Olivia.
“Right now?” She didn’t want to answer that.
His words about liking her because she wasn’t perfect had been like a balm on a burn. She’d thrown herself at him, kissed him like she was starving for affection, for his body, her need so great…so embarrassing. And he’d rejected her.
He trusted her title, her job, but not her, because she continued to fail him, fail herself as she put them in impossible positions.
She cut her eyes away from his body, so tempting, so right. Straightened her back, trying to act unaffected by the fact that only moments ago she’d been panting, kissing him, wishing his hands would go higher or lower. Not play it safe, but give in to that something that burned between them. Blast away the confusion of their day and just connect. Give life to that something that had flashed between them, scorching her with a crazy need for him.
But that wasn’t what he wanted. It was about business. She should have remembered that. Sex would make it personal, take them down a one-way road. And make it harder to go back to Luke and all that awaited her with him. But somehow, right now, that didn’t seem to matter. She wanted more than Luke could ever give her.
She wanted Devon. He was what mattered. He was the one who made her feel real, and she wanted every morsel he’d allow her to claim.
She cleared her throat, focusing on their PR issue. “First, I’d rally friends and family for support, and demonstrate all the ways you are, in fact, not a puppet.”
“Not as a PR person. As…you.”
“What?” She looked up.
He licked his lips and swallowed. “I meant…if you were me, right here, right now.” His body language was quiet, as if he was waiting for a cue. Which way? Yes or no? “What would you do?”
Oh. Oh. He meant…here in the bedroom.
He knew that whatever they did would change things, and he cared enough to make sure she didn’t think this was going to be a mistake. He needed to know that she wanted this—wha
tever it was—for all the right reasons.
He cared.
Wow, that was sexy.
And it gutted her, reminding her of what a rock he’d been for her in school, the support, the ability to read her, see her, set her free.
She stood, guiding his hand to her waist, standing close, sharing heat. “I would start by doing this.” She gave him a soft kiss, her palms light against his shoulders. “And this.” She wrapped her arms around his neck, kissing him longer, slower. “And if you were in my shoes, what would you do?”
“I’d probably lick my chest,” he said honestly, giving her a wicked smile.
He still knew her so well.
Olivia didn’t know what had overcome her. She watched Devon sleep, his naked body curled against hers. She’d seen him try to be a gentleman, try to back away from the inevitable. They’d ended up in bed anyway, taking their time as they revisited some of their favorite places.
Even though he felt different than he had years ago, his body more honed, less erratic in its power, he’d been the same. He still contained the same perfect blend of gentleness and strength. As they’d moved together she’d felt the connection. The old one. The one where she felt unchained, as if nothing was holding her down any longer. It forged with the new, bringing up a well of feelings.
She’d forgotten how light, how happy she could feel. How easy a smile could feel, how his returned one could open her heart, her entire being.
He was amazing.
And he was her fiancé.
She rolled onto her back.
Fiancé.
It wasn’t real. Wasn’t true, but it was certainly a problem. And not just because she was lying to everyone in this little town he was striving to win over. They were lying to the people he’d known since forever, people who trusted him.
The biggest thing would be to minimize any potential damage by preventing anyone from seeing their deception.
In the bedroom, it turned out, she could fake her way through an engagement. But kissing Devon in the light of day? Holding his hand? Smiling and making doe eyes in public? Putting herself out there and revisiting old emotions? And all those little gestures…they somehow felt much more intimate than what they’d done last night. The tender touches and looks that new lovers shared were going to be difficult—difficult because what if her heart started to believe they were real?
She sneaked a peek at Devon, his body limp in slumber, a small smile curving his lips.
The town needed him.
“Good morning,” he said, his voice deep and sleepy.
“Hey,” she said softly. He hadn’t moved back to his own bed in the night even though the futon was small, not quite a queen. She wasn’t sure what that meant, exactly.
“I haven’t slept like that in forever.”
She’d forgotten how sexy he was with his five o’clock shadow and raspy voice. She needed to be careful, not kid herself that he was actually hers.
“Vibrating with masculine power, as always, I see,” she teased.
He grinned, flexing his biceps. Mr. Right wiggled his body up the covers, then laid his nose on Devon’s arm. What a sucker her dog was.
“Face it, Devon Mattson.” She sat up and smoothed the sheet over her, feeling awkward for her nudity. She needed her clothes. “You’re nothing more than man candy.”
He chuckled. “I thought you were working on improving that.”
“One day at a time.”
“So? What’s on the docket today, Livvy?”
She paused, letting the nickname sink in. Livvy. He used to call her that when they were dating, and hearing it again made her feel warm inside.
Dangerous.
Endearments and nicknames were definitely on the danger list. Those were the things that were going to trip her up, hurt her. But him calling her Livvy wasn’t the big one—it was Liv. If he called her Liv it meant he cared and was feeling tenderly toward her. And that, for her, would surely mean game over.
“Mostly damage control,” she said, tugging the sheet a little higher before stretching.
Devon caught the bedding with his toes, helping it drift lower. She curled forward, snatching it up again. “Devon!”
“It’s not like I haven’t seen it before.” He stretched a hand to her hip, where she had a tattoo of a butterfly. “Except this.” His head ducked under the sheet, his lips touching its wings despite her attempts to squirm away. Last night was one thing, a good thing…but she didn’t want to get into a cozy habit of acting like they were truly fiancé and fiancée, and had rights to pleasuring each other.
“I got that after my grandma passed away.” She finally managed to wiggle out of his grip.
His eyes met hers and he eased back to his own side of the bed, his knee sticking out from the covers, revealing a long scar she’d noticed last night. She flicked her gaze to it.
“That’s also new.”
“I was putting a metal Christmas star on a roof.”
“Always helping others, hey, Boy Scout?”
He smiled. “Some things don’t change. Like your affection for Porsches.”
“If you find something you like, why not stick with it?”
“Why indeed?”
Their eyes met and she found that connection, that ability to share words with one simple look, reengaged. She’d missed that more than she’d realized, his familiarity warming her.
They’d once been best friends. They’d once been great at playing off each other, letting life and all its seriousness fall behind as it became about just the two of them. And even though she knew this moment was fleeting, she couldn’t help but wish it could last forever.
Fiancée. Why did that sound so good rolling around in his head? That word should be sending him running to the hills. And it wasn’t.
Maybe because it was all fake.
That, and he was basking in the glow of having been spectacularly taken advantage of by a woman who knew her way around his body like she owned it, commanding it with her every move.
Oh, yeah. It was definitely that.
This fake relationship thing was going to be awesome.
“So…engaged, huh?” he confirmed, sitting up as she began searching for clothes, the sheet tucked around her.
“Is there a better plan, or way out of it?” She wasn’t looking at him.
Back to business. Pleasure time over.
He understood that. They’d had flares of connection all night and then again this morning, and it brought with it a flood of memories. All pleasant, but with a not-so-fun ending.
“I have to go in to work, but I think there’s something we need to take care of first.”
“What?”
“I have something for you.”
She gave him a look out of the corner of her eye. “Should I be nervous?”
He waggled his eyebrows. “Not in the least.”
He slipped on his pair of boxers and zipped into his bedroom. He opened his closet door, reaching high inside. He’d forgotten about the box. Almost. But not quite. Kind of like his feelings for Olivia. He’d deep-sixed those, but they seemed to be bubbling up anyway—unwanted, unnecessary. He reminded himself it was just the sex doing that, unearthing things, stirring up the past. It wasn’t real, it was just a form of therapy—bringing them up so they could be placed properly on the funeral pyre this time, giving them both closure so they could move on and find the right person to complete their lives.
He rejoined Olivia with a shoebox and lifted the lid. There was an odd assortment of mementos from their relationship that had managed to find their way back to Blueberry Springs, and among them was a ring box.
“I bought this when…”
Her large brown eyes expanded, welling with tears.
Yeah. Exactly.
He swallowed hard, forcing his voice to be light. “I thought maybe this could become part of our ruse.”
He opened the box and held it out. The ring, which had diminished in his mind over
the years, connected to such pain, shone bright, feeling suddenly ever so large and full of potential and hope.
Olivia could barely breathe from the effort of holding back tears. Devon had bought her an engagement ring. All those years ago, when he’d asked her to marry him, he’d been completely serious.
And the mementos in the box... So many of them. He’d kept them through the heartbreak, through everything. Why? What did it mean?
She held back a sob, her whole chest burning from the effort of holding it in.
It really had been so very real. For both of them.
What if she’d said yes? What if she’d taken the insanely risky leap? What if they’d run off together? Would they still have lost it all? Or would it have turned out okay—even the baby—because they’d held on to love?
She managed to inhale, then exhale, a torrent of tears breaking free despite her attempt to fight them.
“Oh, Devon,” she whispered, her fingertips brushing her lips.
This felt real.
A fake engagement that felt as though it had been brought out of the ashes of their past, rekindling the hope she’d once had, giving life and meaning to last night’s resurfaced feelings.
“Just for the ruse,” he whispered again, his voice choked with an emotion she didn’t dare look up to confirm.
She curled her legs under her, leaning forward. But instead of taking the ring, she kissed him for believing in her when she hadn’t. For choosing hope. For trusting and loving her. For keeping the ring. But most of all, for trying.
His mouth opened in surprise as their lips connected, her tongue tangling with his. His arms went around her waist, slowly bringing her closer, angling her down onto the bed alongside him. He brushed the hair from her cheek with such tenderness her tears started again.
She should stop this. Before things went the wrong way, got too deep, felt too real.
But it felt so right—like nothing she’d ever experienced with anyone else, and she didn’t ever want the feeling to end, because she still cared ever so deeply for Devon Mattson.