by Harper James
That’s right, Eli. Tell him.
“But,” he says, “if I were to get ‘engaged’ to a regular girl, that would get people’s attention in a good way. That’s if I even considered doing something as fucked up and ridiculous as getting a fake fiancé.”
Preston nods. “I suppose so. But where would you find that kind of girl?”
As Eli turns to look at me with a tight smile, I realize that I’m not so invisible to him after all.
3
“I already have someone in mind for a fake fiancé,” Eli says, nodding in my direction.
This time, instead of fading into the scenery, I actually feel as if I’m on the open range. Eli’s eyes are getting hungrier and hungrier as he keeps looking at me.
But he can’t really mean this. He can’t be getting on board with Preston’s insane plan, and surely he can’t be suggesting that I, a girl he’s only just met, a maid who’s even now on her hands and knees, could possibly be taken seriously as his fiancé.
Preston is looking my way, too. His face reflects the shock of realizing that I’ve been in his esteemed presence this entire time; it’s actually the same surprise I’m feeling at being nominated as the Magically Life-Changing Girlfriend.
Yet something rebels inside of me at his disbelief. I might not be a polished socialite, but I’ve got a few things going for me, like the scholarship I was awarded and my ambition to be a doctor someday, my loyalty to the people I love and my ability to work hard.
Eli still has me in his sights as he gets up and steps toward the edge of the arbor then braces his hand against a wooden pole.
Even though I’m pretty sure he’s only mocking Preston and throwing this idea back in his employer’s face, he seems adamant about what he says next.
“Now that I think about it, this really would make for a great story, Randal.”
The old man waves me off with his hand. “No one would believe that pairing for a second.”
Well, kiss my ass, sir. But I can’t risk insulting a client with that kind of attitude. The cost of business is my pride.
Besides, Preston is right about no one believing this.
“I appreciate your sense of humor,” I say to Eli, “but I’d never make that kind of agreement with anyone.”
“You wouldn’t?” Eli asks with a devilish slant to his smile. He’s probably remembering how I told him that I really need this job.
I narrow my eyes at him. “Most importantly, you don’t know anything about me—including whether or not I’d be the kind of fake girlfriend you’re looking for.”
“See, Randal,” Eli says, never taking his piercing gaze off me, “she’s got spirit. The press likes that kind of attitude, and she’s wholesome enough to get away with it. She’s got a lot of All-American energy to her.”
Is he just trying to piss off Preston even more? Because it seems to be working. The older man is burning a hole through me with his eyes, assessing me.
Preston slides a glance at Eli then back at me again. “The two of you certainly do have some kind of chemistry at work.”
That’s when I realize that this is not a good thing, because what his daughter Lulu wants, she probably gets—and I’m suddenly standing in the way of her path to Eli.
“Girl,” Preston says to me. “What’re you doing out here eavesdropping anyway?”
“I’m sorry, sir. I was just finishing up.”
The words are acrid on my tongue, even though I try to make them honeyed.
“Everything looks fine out here.” Preston actually snaps his fingers in my direction and points toward the outside spa building. “The bathmats need cleaning. Get on that.”
Anger burns up my skin, but I don’t argue, even if I’ve got a whole lot of nasty, mildew-filled joy in my near future. This is for you Mom and Dad, I think as I stand and grab my pail and brush. Then, staring straight ahead, I leave. I can’t even look at Eli—not after the way I was just dressed down. The superstar jerk is probably laughing after shoving me into such a ridiculous spotlight with the fake fiancé suggestion, and after I’m gone, Eli will no doubt tell Preston to screw off with the whole idea then go out to some bar to stir up another scandal, just because it’s in his nature.
As I round the corner toward the side entrance reserved for the help, I tell myself I don’t feel a trickle of forbidden heat down my back, as if he’s watching me go.
I feel nothing but the chip on my shoulder.
I clean the heavy, water-logged bathmats, which includes hefting them up and dumping them in buckets of cleaning solution, then wipe the sweat from my forehead with the back of my arm. Every time I tackle a mat, I think of a new, bitter comeback for Randal Preston.
Take this mat, roll it up, and sit on it, you cretin.
Find someone else to eradicate your athlete’s foot, Jabba.
But after lifting bathmats for a few minutes, exhaustion and disgust overwhelm my fantasies of snarky comebacks. Instead, I fall into a self-pitying mood, wondering how exactly I got here.
I should be at college right now, like other people my age. I got the scholarship, I did everything right. But here I am. Stuck.
I know it’s not my mother’s fault that she got sick. But part of me blames her anyway, if not for falling ill, then for telling me that by working hard in school I would eventually break free of the kind of life my parents have had to endure.
All those motivational speeches she gave me when I was growing up feel like lies now.
Instead of putting my education on hold because of my mom’s Parkinson’s, I should be at a great college, getting an education, then getting ready to go out tonight for a cheap beer with the friends I would’ve made there. And in that alternate life, I would’ve at least had the possibility of real work that actually pays something more than peanuts.
Something that garners self-respect…
Instead, I’m cleaning rich peoples’ smelly bathmats.
Dirty, grossed out, and humiliated by the way those major league assholes treated me, I push aside the unfairness of it all. Even if I’m down in the dumps, life could be worse.
And my mother, despite her condition, gets up everyday with a positive outlook. I need to stop feeling sorry for myself and start learning from her attitude.
So I carry on and do what I always do—promise myself that, this time next year, I’ll be at school with Mom cheering me on.
When I finish in the spa, I go to the outside shower down the hill near the parking garage. It’s for the help to use, and it’s primitive, but after I strip off my grungy clothes and get inside, the cool water beats down on my skin. The midday sun pours over me, too, and I allow myself one more decadent, princess-y moment before I have to leave.
Water…it almost feels like it’s the pool’s waterfall sluicing over me as I stand beneath it.
Come on, Jenna. Get wet with me.
In my fantasy, I hear Eli’s low voice. I push back my steeped hair, and now I feel like if I open my eyes I will see him in front of me again. I imagine we’re both back in that pool. Water laps at his hard abs, and below the surface, a blurred glimpse tells me that he really didn’t put on a bathing suit. His ravenous gaze skims over me, and I realize that I’m not wearing my suit, either.
Get wet with me…
I keep standing beneath the shower’s pulse of water, smoothing my hands down my throat, then my breasts. As I circle my fingertips around my nipples, I feel Eli’s hot, intense fantasy gaze all over my skin. Excitement hardens my nipples, electrifying every nerve until my flesh burns.
I slip my fingers over my stomach, my belly, between my legs. Get wet with me… And that’s just what I am—wet and slick at the mere thought of being in a pool with Eli Brennan, a man who mortified me today. A man I should forget about…
Frustrated by the reality of the situation, I turn off the water, then yank my towel off its hook nearby. As I dry myself, it’s as if I’m sloughing away Eli for good.
Maybe I’ll always d
ream about those heart-joltingly flirtatious few minutes when he came on to me, but it’s back to real life now.
I fetch my duffel from a locker, put on my panties, and then toss my bra back into my bag since it’s too hot for one. I wear a cool, sleeveless white blouse and a short, airy skirt plus a pair of decent flip-flops I got on sale last week. Then I leave the shower, intending to walk through the sweltering heat and down the hill to the nearest bus stop.
But I’m not alone. A shiny red Ferrari is parked nearby, under the shade of a palm tree, and the man who’s leaning against it moves away from his car when he sees me. Before I can even wonder how long Eli has been out here, he speaks.
“Jenna—”
I hold up my hand, anxiety turning to frustration. “Don’t tell me. You’re here to mock me some more. Save it. I’ve had a real long day, so can we just skip to the part where I feel humiliated and you raise your martini to a job well done?”
He starts to talk again, but I beat him to it.
“Listen, I know you only wanted to throw that stupid fake fiancée idea back in Preston’s face by making it sound as preposterous as possible, but maybe you could have used someone else instead of trying to humiliate me.”
“I wasn’t trying to humiliate you, Jenna.”
For a moment, I actually believe him. He seems sincere, with a stray lock of hair covering part of his brow. His eyes don’t even have that naughty glint; there’s a shadow there instead.
Then suddenly, gracefully, he moves toward the passenger door, opens it.
A voice in my head says, your chariot awaits, madam.
I only raise my eyebrow at him.
“Let me make everything up to you by taking you out for a burger at the Hula Shack,” he says.
It’s the hippest place around, just off the Strip, known for having amazing, belly-pleasing food. There’re always lines out the door for their burgers and shakes.
I cross my arms over my chest, my duffel bag dangling from a hand. I really should say a quick, firm no. I don’t quite trust him. Also, he’s so…so him. Famous, gorgeous, as fast as a red Ferrari. And I’m…me.
Maybe that’s what’s turning me on—his obliviousness to the differences between us. Whatever it is, my belly is full of butterflies, and their wings are brushing against me even farther below, tickling my clit, fluttering heat through my every cell.
Dammit, why can’t I just say no?
Eli clearly knows his power over me, because he ushers me forward with a sweep of his hand. But as I slip into the buttery leather beauty of his car, he just can’t help himself.
“Fine, I am a little hungry,” I mumble as I get inside.
“Good. Because I’m about to fill you right up,” he replies darkly.
I think he’s not even talking about the food at the Hula Shack.
As he closes the door, I buckle in, my heart stomping in a stimulated, nerve-riddled frenzy.
4
Even if it’s past lunchtime and long before most people usually eat dinner, the Hula Shack is going to be flooded with customers. But that’s no issue for Eli Brennan.
Before we’ve left Randal Preston’s house, he’s taken my order and contacted his personal assistant on the phone. After he hangs up, he rests his rocked arm on the steering wheel and looks at me with that wicked blue gaze.
I try not to be affected. “Must be nice to never have to stand in line like the common folk.” Folk like me, who descended from parents who never went to college, much less gave birth to a guy who ran around like royalty on a campus. The closest Dad and Mom ever got to ruling their own dynasty was when they started their own house cleaning business to make ends meet.
“I am common folk,” Eli says.
I laugh.
“Haven’t you heard?” he asks. “I grew up middle class all the way, with an older brother and a younger one, surrounded by picket fences.”
“I think you’re forgetting the talent scouts and lucrative offers of employment.”
“Those only came along after I earned them.”
I shrug as if none of it matters to me. “Fine.”
“In case you think I’m acting high and mighty by using an assistant to order the food,” he says, “I’m only having her make arrangements for the Hula Shack’s VIP room.”
“VIP? Isn’t this just a burger place?”
“It’s Vegas, baby.”
As he starts his car’s engine, he reaches over to tug on one of the damp curls that escaped from my clip. The unexpected gesture sends a million shivers through me, each and every one of them like a tiny explosion that pops and sparks until I feel myself go humid between my legs. Maybe if I weren’t so inexperienced with guys, I wouldn’t be so easily turned on by him, but I have the feeling that Eli doesn’t have to put out too much effort to get in a girl’s panties anyway.
He pulls onto the long driveway that leads to the gates. I shift in my seat to face him.
“I’m not really dressed for a VIP room, even if it’s in the Hula Shack,” I say.
“It’s not a dress-up kind of place, even for a VIP. Besides, I don’t think you know how good you look.”
As we pause for the gates to open, he takes his time scanning my legs, eyes moving upward in one long breath-holding caress. When he gets to my face, his eyes lock with mine, and an electric charge surges between us. It singes me, and all I can do is look away.
Why am I here again? How am I here?
He drives us away from Lake Las Vegas, where one beautiful house follows another with their infinity swimming pools and guest cottages and majestic, grassy-flowered landscapes. I’ve cleaned a few of these places, and the thought of my job—and my real station in life—brings today’s events back in a rush.
I already have someone in mind for a fake fiancé.
The bathmats need cleaning. Get on that.
Eli makes a move to turn on the stereo, but then seems to think better of it. His grip tightens on the wheel.
“The last thing you probably expected to hear today was a business proposal like the one Randal came up with,” he says.
It’s as if he’s testing me about our weird day. “I told you that I understand why you brought my name up. You were playing your boss’s game, one-upping him with an even more outlandish suggestion. It was nothing more than a joke.”
“It was?”
My heart jerks inside my chest, but I play it off. “Cut it out, Brennan.”
“Eli,” he says.
“Whatever. My point is that the joke’s gone far enough. I’ll take your burger and shake as a peace offering, but let’s not pretend we both don’t know what’s really going on.”
He doesn’t say anything. It’s just the whir of tires over asphalt now, the sound of the wind blasting against the windshield. He takes one corner with daredevil speed as we fly toward the freeway, and I hold onto my seat for dear life. But I’m not afraid—not really. I feel more alive than I have in a long time.
If ever I did feel this way before, nothing comes to mind.
He finally says something. “And what do you think is really going on?”
“Far be it from me to know. I’m just the cleaning lady.”
“Jesus.” There’s exasperation in his voice, and now he does switch on some music—loud, thrashing rock that shakes the car as he accelerates onto the freeway.
It doesn’t take us long to arrive at the Hula Shack, where Eli valet parks next to an entrance in back, away from the long line out front. He helps me out of the car and rests his hand in the small of my back, guiding me toward the plain door.
Just his touch is enough to make my clit buzz, but I ignore the sensation as we’re seated in a cozy booth where grass walls block us off from the other customers. Within a minute, a tiki-shirted waiter brings us our orders, and Eli digs into his three burgers, triple order of fries, and two rocky road shakes. I’m pretty sure he’s already forgotten about our conversation in the car…thank God.
“When’s t
he last time you ate?” I ask.
“I’m famished.” He leans his elbows on the table and leans toward me. He’s got that wolfish gleam in his eyes again because he’s obviously not talking about food now. I still can’t believe this ultimate flirt is looking at me like this, with wanting, with raw desire.
Me.
“From what I hear,” I say, picking up a French fry, “you’re always craving something…or someone.” I dip the fry in catsup then delicately eat it.
“Didn’t I tell you not to believe everything you hear about me?” He’s already polished off the first burger and he’s going for the second one.
“You told me that in so many words.” And he did mention a so-called sex addiction. “Are you saying that you’re not a ladies’ man?”
He swallows, then wipes his mouth. As he sets down what’s left of his burger, he fixes that all-consuming gaze on me. “I don’t deny that at all. I love women—the way they smell, the graceful way they walk, the softness of their skin…”
Have mercy. It’s as if his voice itself is inching up my skirt. His words are like fingertips skimming my thighs, teasing me, making me want to slide down the upholstery and into a pool of pure need.
It was a mistake to go anywhere with him, even a place where we’re surrounded.
“Is it so bad to like women?” he asks, leaning even closer, so close that I can smell the sun on his skin and the scent of soap.
I start to clear my throat, then stop myself. “It is when it gets you into so much trouble.”
“Womanizing’s not the reason I’m in the team doghouse. It’s the other shit I’ve done that got me there. No, Jenna, I’m good to women. Real good.”
I need to blow out a slow breath, but I can’t, because I’ll give away the fact that there’s steam building up in the very center of me. I’ll give away that my heart is pumping so fast that I can hear it in my ears and feel the wild pulse in my neck, between my legs.
He lowers his voice even more, and I can barely hear him over the Hawaiian music and the thrum of muted conversation around the room.