Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 93785 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 469(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93785 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 469(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
Which is kind of his point, but I won’t admit that.
“Okay,” I say, wrapping my head around his proposition. “You want to date me. For real. For six weeks. All to prove that I need to expand my dating horizons so I can be a better podcaster?”
“Yeah. I mean, it won’t hurt that you’ll get to spend time with a nice guy for once. Hell, you might even like it.”
I laugh, and the sound is much more maniacal than I intend or expect. For some reason, this makes him smirk.
“You don’t think I’ll fall for you or anything, right?” I ask, smirking right back. “Because I won’t. You’re not my type.”
He snorts. “From what I’ve heard, I’m happy about that. I’d hate to be lumped in with that group.”
“Very funny.”
“I’m basically a public servant, trying to stop the destruction of dreams and futures. I’m just doing this as a public service. I’m not trying to make you fall in love with me.”
“Good. Because no man can make that happen.”
“You can’t make love happen, Gianna. It just does.”
Yeah, right.
The heat between us builds, clouding my head and making it hard to think clearly. I don’t know what this will entail or why he’s doing this, but it will help my podcast. I bet my viewership is setting new records today. And dating in this year of our lord comes with sex, doesn’t it?
As if he can read my mind, he winks at me.
Fuck it. What do I have to lose?
“Deal,” I say, smugly. “You have six weeks to broaden my horizons. We’ll update my followers each week on how it’s going. Cool?”
“Cool. And, if at the end of the six weeks, you realize that I’m right …”
“I won’t.”
Francine’s celebration from the sound booth reminds me that we’re live. Shit. I glance at the clock. We’re nearly done with this episode anyway.
“We’re going to wrap up today’s show a little early, friends. After all, I don’t know how much more excitement I can pack into one episode. So I will see you next week with hot takes and cold truths about …. my new boyfriend.” That sounds so weird. “See you guys later.”
“Goodbye,” Drake says as he gets to his feet.
The outro music begins to play, and I slide off my headphones. Drake follows suit. I have no idea what we do now, or if he was joking, or if this is some skit he wants to keep up for views. There are so many unanswered questions on the tip of my tongue.
“I’ll text you tonight,” he says, grabbing his jacket off the back of the chair.
“Okay …”
He gives me one final lingering smile. “This is going to be fun.”
“I …”
He’s out the door before my voice catches up with him.
I fall back into my seat and take a long breath, trying desperately to get my wits together.
What the hell just happened here?
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
Gianna
“Let’s look at the bright side,” Audrey says, stepping over the button mess still scattered on my living room floor. “The messier things get, the better you operate.”
“Or we can look at the other bright side.” Astrid laughs from Audrey’s phone, which is propped against a box that Lucia had delivered to me this afternoon. “Drake Bennett is going to be one hell of a fuck.”
“Well, there’s that, too,” Audrey says with flushed cheeks.
I dip my brush into a blob of crimson paint and splatter it against the canvas. Each droplet drips and runs down the white background in vivid streaks. It reminds me of the energy buzzing through my body and the heat blooming in my chest. Not to mention the ache between my thighs. It’s intense and exciting … and a bit worrisome from a practical standpoint.
But when have I ever been practical?
“You know, that setup looks like the makings of a serial killer documentary,” Astrid says, her voice momentarily cutting out. Phone service is bad on the ranch, we’ve learned. “Clear plastic sheets covering a corner of your living room. A drop cloth with red droplets. Your art could pass as blood play. It’s very … Dexter of you.”
I lean back and take in the impromptu studio. It was unintentional, but it does look a little … violent.
“So what does this mean? I heard the show, but … are you really dating him?” Audrey asks, flopping on the couch. She curls her feet beneath her and sinks into the plush cushions.
“I saw the way Drake was looking at her,” Astrid says. “There’s nothing fake about it to him. I guarantee that.”
I bite back a smile, happy that my back is to my friends so they can’t see that Astrid’s commentary is kind of what I want to hear. I’ll never date Drake—not really. He’s too traditional and jaded about what it means to be in love. But the more I think about fake dating him for real, whatever that means, the more I like it.