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I grab a bottle from the mini fridge behind me and pass it off to her. She chews her lip before taking a sip.
“I wasn’t late,” she says, glancing up at me through her eyelashes. “That means you have to be nice.”
“It means I won’t be an asshole,” I say with a shrug. “There’s a premium for nice and dealing with Patton just doubled it.”
“Was that a joke?” Her eyebrow quirks up again. “And for the record, Patton Rory seems like the nicer one.”
I clear my throat.
Fuck, I almost regret saying anything. I need her on my side.
More, I need her to commit to this fake relationship bullshit before she has another breakdown on the phone because someone’s asking questions she doesn’t know how to answer.
“So, let’s get on with it. Where do you think we met?” she asks, curling her legs up under her. “Someone like you and someone like me… it’s not an easy match.”
I think back to when she barged in on me at home, dramatically ending my evening workout.
“Fitness group? Or the gym? We could say it was a local hiking group, too. I’m partial to those every other year when I’m training for the marathon.”
“Eesh. Way too physical,” she says hastily, shaking her head. A lock of that red hair spills past her face and she tucks it behind her ear.
It’s so odd how she feels close even though she’s a good three feet away from me.
I idly wonder what her hair feels like.
How silky it must be tangled up in a fist, drawing her in, training that mouth of hers to show some respect.
Is the rest of her hair that red?
If I slid a hand between her legs and jerked down her panties, would I be greeted with fire-red curls inviting my tongue to the flesh below, begging to be teased and sucked and—
“Hold on. Maybe you met me when you came in to place an order,” she suggests. “You know—like you actuallydid.”
I shake my head, fighting to banish the hard-on I shouldn’t fucking have while I’m staring at her.
“Huh? No. I don’t need anyone else thinking Ilikethat stuff.”
“Oh, yeah, they’ll revoke your health freak card for sure.” She rolls her eyes. “You know, you’re theonlyperson in Kansas City who truly hates it.”
“I don’t hate your sugar factory, Juniper. Let’s not make this personal,” I grind out. “Besides, I’ve got a reputation to keep.”
She side-eyes me hard. “Aren’t you already ruining that by pretending to be engaged? If everyone thinks you’re such a monk, it must be out of character.”
“Trust me,” I say with a snort, “Forrest Haute thinks I’m the luckiest fuck in the known universe. Nothing you need to worry about there.”
“Iwasn’t the one who was worried,” she mutters.
“Do you have any hobbies? Something outside of work that’s not food?” I ask, flogging this back on track before it becomes another fight. I don’t want to be stuck thinking about whether she’s going to negatively impact my reputation—or why she’s definitely going to negatively impact my discipline when she’s dressed like that.
She chews her lip as she thinks, biting hard enough to whiten the skin. I look away before that damnable hard-on resurrects itself.
“I like art,” she says quietly. “I used to go to all the galleries with Nana when I was in high school, though we haven’t done that for a while.”
“Art,” I echo, mulling over if it’s something I can work with. “Have you been to the Nelson-Atkins the past year?” I lean forward.
Anyone remotely interested in the arts scratches their itch at the local museum. I do it myself a few times a year, and not just for charity events.
“Oh, I love visiting when I have the time. The self-guided tours rock and I think I could spend all day in the European art section,” she says slowly. “I used to burn up whole evenings there when Nana ran the shop, before work got to be too much. Amazing events, too.”
