At my raised brow, he laughs. “I’m not kidding. Having you with me makes all the difference. I know you have reservations, so thank you. I mean it.”
Maybe it’s the whole “sports celebrity” thing, but apparently there’s some expectation that he’ll settle down with a nice girl from Enderson, and he doesn’t want to deal with the pressure this week.
Whatever his rationale, I’m looking forward to this escape.
Wade puts the truck in gear and, merging into traffic, tells me to pick some music.
He quizzes me about school and my favorite classes and whether I’d rather have a skinned knee or a really bad hangnail.
The knee, obviously, though he’d rather the nail. Craziness.
I’m pretty sure he’s keeping me talking in an effort to counteract any lingering nerves on my part. And it’s mostly working, because despite us not having a lot in common at the surface, Wade is a very relatable guy.
We swap stories for a couple hours. I’ve got Instagram and Facebook open on my phone, digging up pictures of the people he’s telling me about. Overall, I’m feeling pretty relaxed about this whole thing when he cuts me a quick look.
“So, I know it’s weird that I can’t go home without finding a buffer to bring with me, but I don’t want you to think it’s because my family’s a bunch of jerks. They’re pretty awesome. Nice. Loud. Welcoming.” He grips the wheel with both hands. “But there’s probably something we should talk about before we get there.”
We’ve been talking since I got into the truck. “What?”
He takes a breath. Holds it. Then— “The physical stuff.”
I cough, my head cranking around in a way that betrays my surprise in no small way. Nothing contained or unflappable about it. The whole instilling-confidence-through-thoughtful-reserve thing I work for in the conference room? Not happening.
And worse, I can feel the heat pushing into my cheeks as I swallow hard.
Wade cuts me another look and, seeing my reaction, blanches. “Jesus, no! Don’t pull the eject handle,” he says in a rush. “I just didn’t want you to worry about it. I won’t be all over you.”
I sit back in my seat, letting go of that held breath with a sharp, “Wade.”
“I’m sorry, I was—hell, I was nervous about bringing it up.” He shakes his head. “Because I didn’t want to spook you or anything.”
I gape.
“I know,” he grumbles, but that same good humor remains in his eyes. “This is, in fact, my first rodeo when it comes to bringing fake girlfriends home.”
“Okay, then what exactly does ‘I won’t be all over you’ mean? You won’t be groping my breasts or shoving your tongue down my throat in front of your parents?” I guess I’d just assumed that much. But suddenly, talking about it seems like an excellent plan. “In fact, why don’t we clarify what you will do, just so there aren’t any surprises?”
“Yeah, that’s a good idea. Would you be okay with my arm around you? Not all the time, but like when we meet my parents and friends?”
His arm? “Your arm around me is fine.”
“I’ll try to go easy on the rest, but just kick me if I’m too much.”
The rest? “What are you normally like with the girls you date?”
His head wags back and forth. “First, I don’t date that many girls. I mean, date-date. Not just— Never mind.”
And there it is, a rosy spot high on his cheekbone. It’s kind of cute to see a big, tough hockey player embarrassed. “I think I get it.”
“Yeah, well, I’m the touchy type. I like to be close. I’m a hugger. When my girlfriend’s got pretty hair or a nice dress, I like to touch it. I like to hold hands. Kiss.” His brows pull together. “Not with tongue or anything, but— It doesn’t matter.”
“Right.” And suddenly I’m thinking about Davis, my college boyfriend. How I’d reached for his hand when he came to the house for dinner, and the look he’d given me made it plenty clear hand-holding wasn’t what he’d come for. Too bad for him, my father had blazed past him, phone at his ear, without so much as a second glance, and then closed himself into his office for the night. I didn’t invite Davis back.
“So the men I’ve dated aren’t generally like that. Not so outwardly affectionate, anyway. No PDA.” They greet me with a kiss on the cheek when they pick me up.
Except Craig, the man I dated for two months, who never actually kissed me. Ours was a polite parting, to say the least.
Wade nods. “Cool. No PDA.”
Only that subtle tightening around his eyes and mouth says not cool.
“Won’t people notice if you aren’t doing any of that? Not so much the kissing, but the other stuff.”
The sound he makes is noncommittal, but I’m already imagining friends and family I shouldn’t be concerned about speculating about the longevity of our relationship. Discussing how clearly not into me he is. How rigid I seem. And all the ways I must be lacking.
My competitive, goal-oriented side doesn’t like it.
Besides, the whole point of this week is for me to get a vacation from my reality.
“That’s very considerate, Wade. But you’ve gone to some lengths here to convince these people I’m something to you I’m not.”
This time the shift of his eyes toward me is slower. “I have.”
I go for a casual shrug, trying for the easy posture he always has. “So why chance failure by trying to be polite? We need to commit or why bother at all, right?”
He licks his lips. Opens his mouth and closes it again. Narrows his eyes on the road ahead and then on me, the corner of his mouth hitched the smallest degree. The suggestion’s not what he was expecting.
Wade flicks the signal for the next exit. “Let’s stop at the station up here.”
“For gas?” The indicator shows nearly a full tank.
“I’ll top her off, but maybe we just give it a trial run. See how it goes without an audience first, yeah? And if it doesn’t feel right, no sweat. Every relationship is different.”
I cough, straightening in my seat as heat flames up my neck and cheeks. “You—you don’t think I can pull it off?”
The shake of his head is slow. “That’s not what I said.”
“But?”
He laughs. “Put that little arched brow away. Just… hold on.” He flips the visor down and opens the vanity mirror in front of me. “What do you see?”
I look, taking inventory of the woman reflected there. Her arms are tightly crossed over her chest, lips pursed into a slight frown, and there’s a buckle between eyes that are narrowed like she’s studying a problem that needs to be broken down.
Honestly, I don’t spend that much time in front of a mirror beyond checking to ensure I’m putting a professional image out there. That even though I’m younger than most everyone I work with, I don’t come across like I am. And it’s somewhat startling to see how that carefully cultivated persona might not gel with… well, really any other situation at all.
Especially one where I’m supposed to be the love interest to some touchy jock.
After a breath, I gesture toward my reflection. “I see a woman who’s been a straight-A student since the sixth grade when that witch Mrs. Hall gave me a B-plus in art. A woman who performs under pressure and doesn’t crack. A quick study and someone who excels at every goal she commits to.” Every goal but one, that is.
I close my eyes. I see a woman who just wants to be someone else for a while.
Unraveling my arms, I smooth my features. Relax my mouth and—
“Are you seriously practicing smiling right now?”
I turn to Wade. “Just find the gas station. I’ve got this.”
This guy has no idea what I’m capable of.
Chapter 4
Wade
Harlow has an intensity about success that’s kind of scary, so no fucking way am I about to laugh at how she’s practicing loosening up her shoulders and going for what I’m guessing is supposed to be
a more casual pose.
She’s not what I expected those few times I saw her at the bank.
Not by a long shot.
And yeah, I’m sort of thinking the fam isn’t going to take this thing with a woman so different than any they’ve seen me with before as seriously as I’d like. Which is a bummer, because it would have been nice to ride this fake relationship well into next year. But even if we’re nothing more than a ten-day wonder, it’ll be enough to let me enjoy being home with my brother.
For now, though, it’s time to see what exactly we’re working with.
I pull to a stop at the first pump, leaving my hands on the wheel as I think about my approach.
“Okay, bring on the PDA. I’m ready,” Harlow says, shaking out her shoulders and taking a big breath like she’s prepping to jump off the high dive.
“Yeah, I see that.” Maybe I’ve got a death wish, but this time I can’t fight the smile. Damn, she’s cute. “Give me a second.”
She stares at me impatiently. Time to stop being a pussy.
“So here’s the plan. I’m just going to talk as we go, tell you what I’m doing as I do it, and see how it plays out. You don’t like it, just—”
“Should we have a safe word?” she cuts in, leaning toward me. “Something that signals we’re serious and want to stop?”
I swallow and run a hand over my twitching lips. Nod. “Yeah, um, how about ‘Knock it off, Wade’ or maybe cutting to the chase and saying ‘Stop’ or ‘No.’ Both are instantly effective with me and might seem more natural than you casually working ‘armadillo’ or something into the conversation.”
I’ve got to give her credit. Harlow doesn’t look away, even when her cheeks start to flush.
“That works.”
Figured it might.
“Okay, how about we start with something simple, like your hair.” I sling my arm over the seatback between us and touch the dark silk I’ve been trying not to notice since she got in the truck.
Harlow’s brows furrow again as I tease a few loose strands, looping them around my fingers before tucking them behind her ear.
Uh-huh. Yep, she’s not breathing, and so much for that shoulder shimmy when she wanted to loosen up. Because now, she’s straight as a stick, eyes cranked to the side as she tries to focus on my too-close hand.
Totally natural.
No one’s going to suspect a thing.
Fuck.
I can see it’s costing her big not to bat my hand away, and I laugh. Seriously, what else am I going to do?
How is this girl so easy to talk to while physically being wound so tight?
“What’s wrong with my hair? I was going for something softer, but—”
“It’s perfect, Harlow.” And it is. As long as it is dark, that thick spill over her shoulder was one of the first things to catch my eye. “I’m using it as an excuse to get closer. Sure, I could tell you that there’s a pretty bit of hair that’s fallen free of that barrette you’ve got the rest clipped into, and then let you excuse yourself to fix something I like better the way it is.”
She pulls back an inch. “You do?”
A lot, actually. “Sure. Which is why I’ll take the opportunity to play with said pretty bit of hair myself. I get to move a little nearer”—I demonstrate, bringing my mouth close enough to her ear she’ll feel the warmth of my breath, and after waiting a beat longer than strictly necessary to ensure she actually does, I go on—“while I tuck those rogue strands away.”
And that’s what I do. “Pretty.”
“Thank you,” she whispers, and then seeming to shake off whatever uncertainty she was feeling, she says it again, louder, with more confidence. Like she’s got a point to make and she wants every last guy in the conference room to get it.
“In this case, Harlow,” I murmur quietly, “version one of that thank-you works the best.”
“Okay. I’ve got this. Do it again.”
I blink at the no-nonsense dictate. I clear my throat. Mentally promise my ego it’s only ten days and it’s going to be okay. Then I’ll find some girl who thinks I’m exactly her type with this whole “body business” and let her stroke it—my ego, I mean. Totally.
We go again. “…and I tuck it behind your ear because I’m an affectionate guy and it gives me a chance to stay close to you for just a few seconds longer.”
Which I do.
She’s beautiful. And the longer I stare into the deep brown of her eyes, the more I feel that power shift tipping back in my favor. Because now she’s peering up at me through her thick, dark lashes, only to look away with a catch of her breath that is way more like it.
Ego saved!
Or so I think.
Harlow leans in just a bit too eagerly, that sort of sexy, shy thing of two-point-five seconds ago nowhere to be found.
“That was better?” She nods without waiting for me to agree, a squint of satisfaction in her eyes. “That breathy business nailed it, right?”
I let out a laugh and kiss my ego goodbye. “Yeah, you nailed it.”
Harlow
Wade was right about the test run. I’m out of my element with him, but I’m a quick study. Was it strange having him touch my face and hair? Yes, it was. But was it something I could handle for a ten-day stretch? Absolutely.
Even knowing his attention is all for show, it’s no hardship having a man give me his best flirt. It’s the sort of thing I’ve never encouraged, the sort of thing I’ve spent more of my life shutting down than letting get in the way of my goals.
But for this week… it is my goal.
And I don’t want anyone wondering why a man like Wade would want a woman like me.
A few miles pass with Wade drumming his thumbs over the steering wheel in time with the radio. He’s relaxed, at ease. Like he figures that one practice run was plenty.
It might be. But I like to be sure.
Also, I can’t stop thinking about the woman in the vanity mirror. She’s not invited on this trip, and I’m going to make sure she’s gone before we get to Enderson.
Wade gives me a curious smile. “What’s up?”
“There’s an exit coming up. Let’s take it.”
He stops drumming and I feel the temperature go up.
Clearing my throat, I try to sound as casual as I intend this thing to be. “This time, no telling me what you’re going to do before you do it. Just act natural and let’s see how it goes.”
When we pull into the station, it’s into a spot about halfway across the parking area rather than at the pump.
He cuts the engine and hops out. And when I open my door, he’s there, flashing me that smoldering smile, eyes crinkled at the edges, mischief shining through.
“Okay, Good Girl, ready for some more practice?”
“Ready to be wowed? I’m going to kill it.” Then I hold up a hand. “Wait, I know we said we weren’t going to, but do you think you should try kissing me this time? Just in case?”
Wade’s eyes drop to my mouth, linger for a beat that does something sort of strange to my chest. “You’d let me kiss you?”
His voice sounds deeper, each word almost deliberately placed.
“I mean… if you think it will convince whoever needs convincing. Then, yes.”
“I appreciate that.” His eyes shift back to mine, his smile returning. “But how about we don’t pull the pin on that one unless we really need to.”
“Emergency kissing only. Got it.”
Wade lets out a gruff chuckle. “It’s a plan.”
I start to climb out of the car, but Wade’s there. His big hands landing on my hips to lift me down. I’m not expecting it and go stiff for a second.
But wow.
I’ve never had a thing for athletes. Those oversized jocks who always seemed to take up more space than their share drove me crazy in school. Right now, though? Wade is giving me a lesson in the benefits of muscles.
“Might have to work on that one,” he says with a smile.
<
br /> “You’re strong.” I think my heart might have stopped beating, or maybe I just stopped breathing.
He winks. “Hockey player.”
Catching my hand in his, he walks backward, pulling me along with him toward the store. That smile as firmly in place as the eye contact he’s not giving up.
It’s another novel experience. Uncomfortable and a little electric all at once.
“You want to look away. I can see it,” he teases in a low, singsong voice. “Bet you can’t make it all the way inside.”
“Oh, I can make it inside,” I assure him, my own smile rising to the challenge.
I’m not afraid of eye contact. In business, I have no qualms about meeting a man’s eyes, and I can say with some degree of certainty I’m rarely the one to blink first. And never because I’m intimidated.
But with Wade, it’s different. None of those business associates offered the undercurrent of smolder in their smiles that Wade Grady seems incapable of shutting down in his.
He pushes through the front door and grins. “You win.” Then, when I think he’s going to let my hand go, he changes the hold so our fingers are threaded together and leads me toward the coolers. “Let’s grab a drink.”
When we get back to the car, me with an iced tea and Wade with some jacked-up water drink, I shake my head. “I can do better.”
He pulls my door open and helps me up. “You did fine. Don’t get in your own head.”
I scoff, waiting until he rounds the hood and climbs in on his side. “That was a seventy percent. At best.”
Wade’s face does something weird and horror seeps into my voice. “Sixty?”
This time he turns to me. “Are you… grading yourself?”
I blink. Feel the familiar burn of embarrassment crawling up my neck and into my cheeks. My arms cross and I sit straighter. “What if I am?”
He reaches for my crossed arms, using a single finger and that smile to pry them loose. Then he leans in, again getting close enough to my ear that I can feel the teasing warmth of his breath. “That was a solid eighty-five. And with another pit stop or two, you’ll be acing this.”
DIRTY TALKER Page 3