My Fake Fiancée

He and Chelsea exchanged a glance, but she didn’t speak, letting him field this one.

“We haven’t set a date,” David said quickly. Then, realizing how that sounded, he said, “Probably next spring.”

“You should get on it ASAP if you are planning a spring wedding,” Amelia warned him. “The good places all get booked. When my daughter got married, we had a full year to plan, and still, she only got her second choice of venue.”

“That’s something to think about, honey,” he said. Then he dug around desperately for a topic that would move the conversation into a new direction. But before he’d been able to think of anything, Amelia was at it again.

“I see you don’t wear a ring, dear.”

He stared at Chelsea’s left hand, with its short, buffed nails and no jewelry whatsoever. Damn it, he’d totally forgotten. Of course he should have given her a ring. A fake diamond for his fake fiancée.

He opened his mouth with no idea what he was going to say, when Chelsea put her hand over his. “He wanted to, but I work with food all day. Honestly, a ring would only get in the way. I’d be terrified I’d take it off to wash my hands and wash the ring down the drain or something. Once we’re married, I’ll wear a wedding band, though, of course.”

A few of the board members at the other end of the table got a little rowdy as the night went on. And suddenly, to his horror, he heard a spoon begin to bang against a glass.

“We want the engaged couple to kiss,” somebody shouted.

Piers started to protest, but his wife said, “Oh, don’t spoil the fun. It’s nice to see young people in love.”

By now, other spoons had joined in the din. What could he do?

He leaned forward and caught the laughter in Chelsea’s eyes as he closed his lips on hers.

For a second he forgot that he was in a corporate setting with a group of people who held his future in their hands. All he knew was that she tasted like chocolate and sex and a hint of licorice from her earlier Pernod.

He pulled away slowly, seeing the shock in her eyes. He imagined her look must have mirrored his own. Slowly, her tongue slipped out and she licked her lips as though trying to catch the elusive flavor of that kiss.

He wanted to say something that would lighten the sudden tension, but he couldn’t think. Rockets were exploding in his brain. Or maybe they were Mayday flares warning him that he was in deep, deep trouble.

5

OH, NO. THE WORDS bounced around Chelsea’s brain like a pinging dot in one of those annoying computer games. Oh, no. Oh, no, oh, no, oh, no, oh, no!

If she’d had one rule for herself—if she’d thought any of this through enough to have created some rules for herself, which would have been a pretty damn good idea—rule number one would have been no kissing. Well, no physical contact of any kind, obviously. But it was too late for that, so maybe if she pulled herself together long enough to list a few rules for personal conduct, she had a tiny possibility of getting through this charade without making a fool of herself.

Maybe.

She got through the rest of the night somehow, but she was always conscious of David’s presence beside her, of the feel of his arm when it brushed hers. Even through the summer-weight jacket he wore she felt his body heat the same way she felt the insistent attraction that thrummed between them.

She wasn’t sure whether she was glad or sorry when they finally left. Sure, it had been stressful to play a part, but at least the mental effort had kept her from thinking about the fact that soon she’d be going to David’s home.

With David.

Alone.

“What are you thinking about?” David asked her. They were seated in a cab speeding to his place. She was sure he lived close enough to walk, but in deference to her heels, he’d insisted on a cab. And the two of them were headed for his place for all the wrong reasons.

No! She corrected herself hurriedly. For all the right reasons. Sex was a bad reason and they weren’t going to do that. Clearly no sex was the new rule number one.

Good reasons for heading to David’s place included a nice place to stay rent-free for a few months and use of a kitchen that Sarah insisted was top-of-the-line.

She had to keep reminding herself of that, especially since breaking rule number one of the former rules list, the one where no kissing held top spot. Because any fool could see that once a woman started kissing a man like David, she was never going to stop.

How many times had she dreamed about that first kiss? A thousand? A million? Ten billion? She’d been a quintessential shy-girl nerd. Not even a geek, which was starting to be cool when she hit high school. No. She didn’t mess with computers, she read classics and she cooked. She supposed, looking back, that she was trying to recreate the home she’d lost by becoming a great cook. With the three adults all working, she was usually the one to cook dinner, and she found that she loved to experiment with new recipes, to refine old family favorites.

Other kids played video games and watched Friends when they got home from school. She watched Jacques Pepin and Martha Stewart. She wore the wrong clothes. She was plain and shy and studious. And the perfect fodder for a hopeless crush on the guy most likely to do whatever the hell he pleased.

But even in the fantasy realm where David suddenly noticed her and drew her slowly to him and kissed her, she’d never imagined that it would be quite so earth-shattering—and like most shy, bookish girls, she had quite an imagination.

Who’d have believed that now, now that she was no longer that shy young closet romantic, when she had plenty of experience of life and love, a simple kiss could rock her world.

But it had.

And so she was obsessively thinking about not thinking about that kiss—and about rules.

“I’m thinking about rules,” she said at last in answer to his question.

“Rules?” In the dim light of the cab, she thought she caught the interest on his handsome face. “What kind of rules?”

He said the words in the low, sexy tone of a man who brought women home to his place more often than she cared to think about, and not so they could sleep in the guest room and cook in his kitchen. Oh, no. He thought she was about to invent some sex game with rules. Even as the thought hit her, heat flooded her body.

No. Oh, no, oh, no, oh, no, oh, no!

“Rules of conduct,” she snapped, knowing she must sound like a kindergarten teacher on the first day of school.

“Maybe you’d better explain exactly what you mean.”

“If we’re going to be, um, sharing the same apartment, I think we need some guidelines.”

“If this is a toilet-seat-up-versus-down conversation, you can relax. There are two bathrooms. You’ll have your own.”

“I wasn’t thinking of those kinds of rules, though I suppose we’ll have to work around each other’s preferences. I was thinking more of …” She had no idea how to phrase this, and suddenly felt incredibly foolish. “Rules between you and me.”

Did he have to sit so close? There was plenty of room, but David had positioned himself so his leg was touching hers, thigh-to-thigh, and she felt the heat pulsing between them in a way that did not bode well for her peace of mind.

David, as she knew well, was a player, and she had no interest in being one of his playthings. At least, not in the sensible, self-protective part of her.

“Rules between you and me,” he echoed, sounding a little confused but also hopeful.

“Like no kissing,” she blurted.

He chuckled softly. And it was such a sexy sound she wanted to throw herself at him and break all the rules she’d thought of and a bunch she hadn’t. “Looks like we already broke the first rule.”

“I know. That’s what started me thinking. I can’t live in your house if we’re going to be, you know …”

“Kissing.”

“And so on.”