Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 91285 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91285 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Even though that’s not what I meant, I don’t bother correcting her. It’s better for both of us if she thinks that than discovers the truth.
“Maybe.” It takes effort to shrug off the sting of her words.
“Oh, there’s no maybe about it, McNichols. You’re definitely an egomaniac.”
I force a smile. “You’re welcome to find another fake boyfriend if you’d prefer.”
Her humor fades as she presses her lips together and glances away. For a moment, I wonder if she’ll tell me to go fuck myself before stalking out of the penthouse.
It would probably be for the best.
Just as my nerves reach a breaking point, she mutters, “Whatever your rules are, I’ll agree to them.”
Relief punches through me so hard and fast, it’s almost embarrassing. As much as I’m dreading this, the thought of another man laying his hands on her, smiling for the cameras, pretending he’s the lucky bastard who gets to be at her side and in her bed, has something ugly unfurling in my gut. I’d have no other choice but to kill him with my bare hands.
“No offense, but I’ve dated my fair share of manwhores who are commitment phobic. I’m certainly not going to fall for one I’m pretending to date. So there’s nothing for you to worry about on that front.”
Umm… excuse me?
“What does that mean? Are you saying you’re ready to settle down?” The questions shoot out of my mouth before I can reel them back in.
Her brows lift.
Mine probably do as well, considering how fucking interested that made me sound.
And it’s too damn late to backtrack.
She glances at the skyline before shrugging. “If the right man came along? Possibly. But Dakota wasn’t the right one.”
A bark of laughter slips free. “I’m sorry… you actually dated someone named Dakota?”
She rolls her eyes. “At least I know the names of the people I sleep with.”
I force a smile. Little does she know I haven’t slept with a woman in six months.
Before I can dwell on the sad state of my sex life, she clears her throat. “So, what kind of rules did you have in mind, McNichols? I can hardly wait to hear this.”
What I need to do is keep it simple.
Straightforward.
Clean.
Instead, the second I open my mouth, every fucked-up, possessive instinct I have when it comes to Cheyenne Benson claws its way to the surface.
“No flirting with anyone but me. If we’re together, you act like it.”
She stares at me for a long moment. “Ever consider I’m just friendly?”
Damn straight she is. I’ve witnessed her flirting firsthand, and I hate it. I’ve never experienced the kind of jealousy I do when I watch her with other men. There’s always too much laughing and touching. Too many of those boneheads thinking they’ve got a real shot with her.
I shake my head. “With me, in public, you’re not.”
“All right. I’ll do my best to control myself.”
Her dry tone tells me exactly what she thinks of that.
Good.
“Rule number two: if your ex contacts you, you tell me right away.”
Her expression shifts, all amusement fading. “Is that really necessary? I can handle Dakota on my own.”
“If that were true, you wouldn’t be here now, would you?”
She releases a slow breath.
“I want to know if he texts, calls, shows up, or tries to get in touch with you in any other way,” I add. “You no longer handle it on your own. We’re a package deal now.”
Her eyes narrow. “You do realize this relationship is fake, right?”
“Yup.”
“Then why are you acting like I need a bodyguard when I just need you to look pretty on my arm?”
Because the thought of that guy showing up anywhere near her makes me want to put him through the nearest wall. She walked into my place tonight tense as hell, all the while pretending she wasn’t, and I’m not buying her easy smile for a single second. I don’t trust him because I’d be out of my fucking mind if I were the one who lost her. And maybe I don’t trust her to take this as seriously as she should.
Instead of purging all of that from my system, I keep it to myself.
“Luckily for you, Hollywood, I’m capable of doing both.” I shoot her a grin before continuing. “Rule number three: I want your location on at all times so I know exactly where you are.”
The second the stipulation leaves my mouth, I realize I’ve crossed into borderline unhinged territory. She studies me for a beat, and I can practically see her reassessing the entire conversation, as if she’s realizing these aren’t just fake-boyfriend rules.
They’re something else entirely.
Well, that’s too damn bad. I’m in this now.
Her eyes widen. “Seriously?”
For half a second, I consider walking it back and telling her I’m kidding. But then I picture her somewhere in the city with her ex blowing up her phone—or worse, showing up in person—and I double down.