by Elise Faber
Who could blame her?
He hadn’t exactly been reciting Shakespeare to her. He’d blurted, he’d verbally thrown up statements about how he was using her for her family connections only, and he—
Felt his jaw hit the pavement.
Or at least drop open.
Because . . .
Sera was there, and she looked fucking incredible.
Her heels clicked softly against the concrete as she made her way toward him, but it wasn’t her heels that he was focused on, or not for long anyway. Because the black strappy stilettos encased feet that were attached to ankles that were attached to long tan legs.
They were out for all the world to see—the dress she wore had a long slit on one side—and, fuck, but that peekaboo of flesh that appeared with each of her steps had Tate’s cock twitching.
Smooth, tan skin. Slender ankles wrapped around his hips. Sharp heels digging into his spine.
Yeah. All of that.
And he hadn’t even gotten above her waist yet.
Tate was a legs man, and as much as he liked Sera’s breasts—what straight man in his right mind wouldn’t?—it wasn’t her upper half that got him.
Nope. Ass. Thighs. Calves. That was his kryptonite.
“You alive?” she teased.
He swallowed, forced his mouth closed, and finished his perusal quickly.
Slender waist, gorgeous rack, fucking beautiful face.
She was absolutely out of his league.
“You slay me,” he said, reaching for her hand and tucking it in his. It might have been the most normal physical reaction he’d had with another person in ages and one he’d just done without thinking through every possible angle.
There was a reason he struck out with the ladies.
He thought and thought and thought . . . then didn’t act.
Or he blurted.
Nothing in between. Nothing normal.
And money aside, no woman wanted a man who swiveled between those two mediums.
Thank you, childhood. Thank you, Priscilla.
But if he’d learned nothing at all, Tate knew that at some point he had to move the blame from his parents onto his own shoulders. No, his upbringing hadn’t been idyllic, but he’d had food and a safe place to stay and . . . everyone had baggage.
He could have just done without the guilt trips.
“You slay me?” Sera repeated, brows dragging together.
Tate had screwed up again. He started leading her toward the restaurant doors, preventing her escape. “I meant, you look beautiful.”
Her feet slid to a stop. “Except you said slay.”
“Uh?” He stopped too. “Is that a bad thing?”
She tilted her head to the side. “Do you even know what slay means?”
“Killed it,” he said. “As in ‘Beyoncé slayed her outfit at last night’s Emmys.’”
Sera was silent and unmoving, her lips shaping the words he’d just said. Then she stared up at him, a perplexed expression on her face. “Why does it sound like you quoted that off Urban Dictionary?”
Because he had.
Tate had a problem . . . and that problem was an addiction to RuPaul’s Drag Race. Look, he got it. The show wasn’t the most obvious choice for a tech genius with a fat bank account. And that wasn’t ego talking. It was fact.
But it was also fact that he often stayed up all hours of the night working.
Which led to plenty of opportunity to binge reality TV.
His current show of choice? Well, there was something intrinsically watchable about Drag Race. The colors, the costumes, the drama. He was all in. And there were so many seasons of it that he wouldn’t have to find a new show for a good long while.
“Tate?” Sera stepped in front of him, face suddenly very serious. “Is the reason you need a fake fiancé because you’re gay?”
He blinked. “Um, what?”
“I have never heard a straight man use the word slay.”
“First of all, that assumption is blatantly sexist,” he said, not quite sure where his response came from. His tone had gone playful, and Tate Conner didn’t do playful. But one thing hadn’t changed, because his blurt ability was still on point. “Me enjoying binging Drag Race doesn’t have any bearing on my sexual orientation. Maybe I just like the costumes, okay?”
Her expression was bewildered. “And do you? Do you like the costumes?”
A shrug. “Yeah.”
“Hmm.”
“We should get inside. We’re late.” The moment of playful had faded, and he was just normal, awkward Tate again. He knew that admitting he liked the show made him sound like a fool. Well, whatever. It wasn’t like they were really engaged. Sera could think he was a fucking weirdo as much as she wanted so long as they went through with the fake engagement.
Too bad he didn’t want her to think he was weird.
He wanted her to like him.
Danger. Danger, his internal alarm blared. There were many reasons that wanting Sera to like him was a terrible idea, not the least of which was the fact that she was way out of his league and had absolutely no interest in him. She was helping out solely for real estate and charity, and so it didn’t matter if she liked him.
The other, and more important priority, he needed to remember was the project.
This was about the project.
Nothing more.
“I’m guessing I’m not wrong in thinking that you did look up slay’s meaning,” she said softly. “And not on Merriam-Webster.”
He sighed, nodded the barest amount to acknowledge her, then started tugging her toward the doors again. “Let’s go inside.”
“Tate.”
He stiffened, knowing that she was going to declare that this bit of weirdness was the proverbial straw on the camel’s back.
She might be able to tolerate a lot, but a man who—
“I love romance novels.”
“What?”
She stepped in front of him, their eyes level because of the heels she wore. “I love the escapism, the way they draw me into a story, and I just forget about everything else around me. I love that there’s always a happy ending, that good prevails over evil, that the fictional world has good in it when our real one seems on such a razor’s edge.”
That.
That was it exactly.
“After dealing with lines of code and business meetings and emails and financing, sometimes I just want to get lost in something that isn’t real life.”
“Yes,” she murmured. “I know exactly what you mean.”
They stood on the sidewalk, staring at each other, unaware of the people moving around them. Or at least, he couldn't focus on anything aside from Sera. And not just her external beauty because that obviously took his breath away, but also what was, as cliché as it sounded, inside.
Her gaze didn’t hold derision or judgment.
It held understanding.
Then she licked her lips, and Tate forgot all about understanding. Her mouth was painted a glossy cotton candy pink, and he wanted to kiss it off her, to taste the sweet treat of her mouth.
Sera lifted a hand, brushing her fingers gently over the cut on his temple. The action made him shiver, but he didn’t miss her wince.
“It doesn’t hurt,” he said.
That sweet mouth curved. “I hit you with my car.” She rose on tiptoe, brushed a kiss to the spot.
He half-expected to feel the stickiness of her lipstick, but when she leaned back, it was still perfectly in place.
“RuPaul would be impressed with the staying power of your gloss.”
She giggled even as Tate internally groaned. Why did he always blurt? His cheeks were hot, and he felt decidedly less like a businessman about to score a huge deal and more like an embarrassed child.
“Tate.”
He brought his gaze back to her.
“I’m glad you understand.”
“Lip gloss?”
“No,” she said, smiling.
“Though, yes, I guess. Staying power is important.” He snorted. “But, no, I just meant that I’m glad you understand the need to escape from reality sometimes.” She slipped her hand into his, tugged him forward. “I got sidetracked, but look, there’s something you should know before we go in there. My—”
The door pushed open, revealing a petite blond woman dressed in an expensive-looking black dress. Despite the disparity in size, her face was Sera’s.
“Sera, sweetie, you’re late. Don’t you know how rude it is to be late?” She stepped up to Sera, air-kissed both cheeks. “What is this dress? Is that cotton? Who designed it?” Her stare shifted to him, and Tate almost took a step back. “Oh look! There you are, darling! I’m so happy to meet you finally. Sera hasn’t—”
“Mother.”
“—told us a thing about you. She likes to punish us, you see. Wearing dresses by designers I don’t support—”
“Mother.”
“—then not calling me first thing upon her engagement—”
“Sugar.” A man came out of the restaurant, and though he had little in common with Sera looks-wise, it only took Tate a glance to recognize Sera’s bright blue eyes, to see that this man was where she had gotten her height from. He was an inch taller, and his shoulders were definitely broader than Tate’s.
“—eating organic—”
Sera sighed.
“—and still not shedding the weight—”
That, finally, snapped Tate out of the whirlwind that was the last twenty seconds. “I love Sera’s dress,” he said, talking over Sera’s mother when she continued to speak. “It matches her beautiful eyes.”
Those eyes shot over her shoulder to meet his for a long moment, but just as her mother sucked in a breath again, Sera faced her parents. “Mother, Dad. This is Tate Conner.”
He stepped forward, extended a hand. “Mr. and Mrs. Delgado. Nice to finally meet you.”
Sera shot him a glance he couldn’t interpret, but he was too focused on surviving the handshake with Sera’s father, half-surprised when he retrieved his hand that his bones weren’t crunched into a hundred pieces.
Sera’s mother’s hand was limp as he gently shook it. “Sugar, please,” she said.
He frowned. “I—uh—I can find you some. I don’t have any”—a shrug—“not much of a sweet tooth.”
Sera’s mom laughed, a delicate tinkling sound that sounded far too contrived.
“Oh, no, darling. My name is Sugar.” She winked. “But I like to think that I’m sweet.”
“Unbelievable,” Sera muttered, rolling her eyes. “We should go inside,” she said. “We don’t want to keep Mr. Roche waiting.”
“Oh, yes,” Sugar said, slipping between him and Sera and taking both of their hands. “I can’t wait to discuss all the wedding details—”
“Mother.”
“—I was thinking white orchids. Hydrangeas are so last year—”
“Mother.”
“Conner.” Sera’s dad stopped him just after they’d crossed the threshold into the restaurant then tilted his head in the direction of the wooden bar set up along the far wall of the space. “A word?”
Tate nodded, trailing the other man in silence.
In the span of forty-eight hours, he’d gone from single and pathetic to fake engaged and even more pathetic, to having what he could only imagine was going to be a Don’t-You-Dare-Hurt-My-Daughter conversation.
Life.
Sometimes it was really life-y.
Sera’s gaze caught his, concern in her expression or maybe that was just desperation to escape her mother since he could hear Sugar waxing poetic about the merits of organza versus satin.
Tate raised a brow, mouthed, “You okay?”
Her eyes went wide, but after a moment, she smiled and nodded slightly. Fine. Mouthed, “You?”
He shrugged. Probably not.
Mischievousness crossed her expression, which he took as affirmation to his thought that he was probably not okay.
A hand clamped down on his shoulder.
“Let’s talk,” Mr. Delgado growled.
Yup. Definitely not okay.
Eight
Sera
“You’re not even listening to me,” her mother snapped. “We need to get this wedding planned as quickly as possible.”
“Mother,” she said. “Tate and I just got engaged. We’re going to enjoy just being together.”
Sugar sniffed. “Enjoy being together once he’s officially locked in.”
“Like a stock price, Mother?”
“Have you seen his company’s stock price?” Sugar countered.
Sera sighed, mentally counting to ten before slipping in front of her mother and moving to sit at the table the host indicated. Sam Roche and his wife, Peggy, stood as she approached.
“Mr. Roche, so good to see you again,” Sera said, extending her hand to shake his.
The older man had hair plugs. She probably shouldn’t have noticed them, but they were so poorly done, it was hard not to do so. Plus, she’d known him for almost twenty years, and he’d never had hair until recently.
New wife. New hair.
“Sam, please,” he said, rounding the table and pressing a kiss to her cheek. “You’re all grown up now, Seraphina. And plus, Mr. Roche makes me feel old.” His eyes drifted down then back up, and Sera was reminded again of why she stayed far, far away from the social circle of her parents and their friends.
Because ick.
He lingered too long, too close, and placed a palm on her spine, urging her forward.
What should have been a nice gesture, assisting her to her chair, turned abhorrent when his fingers drifted dangerously close to the crack of her ass. She sidestepped, putting a chair between them, and extended a hand to his wife.
Rumor had it, this new wife was thirty years his junior, but in natural light—or well, the restaurant variety—that difference seemed more in centuries.
God, could the other woman even drink?
“Peggy?” Sera said, pasting on a smile and shoving down her judgy hat. Who knew, maybe they were very happy.
A limp hand met hers, that awful weak-wristed impersonation of a shake that her mother had perfected. Sera much preferred a firm meeting of palms, but as she was quickly remembering, that wasn’t their way.
Thank God, she wasn’t one of them any longer.
“Pleasure,” the woman said, eyes flicking over her with a dismissive glance.
Yup, she was so glad she wasn’t one of them.
“So, where’s this fiancé of yours?” Roche asked, his booming voice carrying through the restaurant. “I knew that boy had a good head on his shoulders when he mentioned he’d managed to snag you. Beauty and a brain, that’s not too bad.” He guffawed, reaching over and squeezing her arm, a self-satisfied smirk on his face. Never mind that Tate was probably a decade older than Peggy.
“Dad needed to ‘talk’ to him.” She did air quotes, finding they were an excellent way to keep Roche at arm’s length as she perused her seating options. Take the chair next to Peggy and hope that her mother sat next to her?
But then she risked the wedding inquisition.
Well, her only other option was to leave a seat open that Roche might slip into, and then she’d be dealing with creeping hands.
And she’d spent too long dealing with men like him to want to sit through a three-course meal next to him.
Why did the men who so often appeared to be the nicest and kindest and most philanthropic end up always being the ones who were the grossest?
Sleazy fuckers, the lot of them.
Sera smiled to herself, proud of her curse word, even if it was a generalization. A generalization borne of her life experience, but still one anyway. She shifted, bracing herself to be combatting wedding talk when her mother sat in the chair directly next to Peggy.
Sigh.
“Darling,” Sugar said. “I need to hear all about that charity fashion show you organized. Who
was the designer again?”
Peggy’s eyes lit up and she began talking, rapidly discussing hemlines and models. Her mother sighed, held in rapt attention. Fashion and runways and designers were Sugar’s weakness. She’d desperately wanted to model in her younger days but hadn’t been tall enough.
Hence, marrying the tallest rich man she could find.
Hence, putting Sera in every pageant and in front of any model agent she could rustle up.
“There’s a seat here,” Roche said, pulling out a chair next to where he’d been sitting before.
“Please, sit,” she told him. “I actually need to use the ladies room.”
Disappointment on his face, he plunked down into his seat. “Don’t be too long,” he said. “I’m anxious to hear about your fiancé.”
She nodded, not liking his tone. “Of course.”
Fingers on her spine made her jump.
“You okay?” Tate’s voice didn’t sound right.
She shivered, glancing over her shoulder at him. But he wasn’t looking at her. He was staring at Roche, daggers in his eyes. In fact, he appeared ready to launch himself across the table and pummel Sam into unconsciousness. She turned, rising up to whisper in his ear. “It’s fine. I know how to deal with men like him.”
Piercing blue eyes flashed to hers. “He made you uncomfortable.”
Her father slipped past them, taking the chair next to Roche. The pair began a loud conversation about women and the various difficulties they brought into a man’s life.
“Assholes,” Tate muttered.
Sera took his hand. “Be right back,” she told the table at large, though no one was paying attention to them, then tugged Tate passed the tables until they’d reached the hall with the bathrooms.
They were in luck, they were single-use, and one was empty.
She pushed open the door, dragged him inside.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“What’s wrong?” he snapped. “I’m at the bar listening to your father threaten me not to hurt you, and I can see that asshole touching you.”
“Roche?”
A nod. “The worst part was your father watching the same thing and not giving a damn.”
She leaned back against the door, flipped the lock. “He was probably distracted by giving the don’t-hurt-my-daughter spiel.”