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He’s still firmly in place on my asshole-o-meter, but I can see the pain and guilt he carries along with the chip on his shoulder. I don’t know why it bothers me so much that he can’t see it, but everything inside me screams he needs to see himself differently. That maybe if he saw himself as more than just a billionaire playboy with a shit attitude, he could do amazing things with his ranch.
“Why do you even care, Dakota? This is fake, remember? After what happened out there, there’s probably no point in even trying.”
And that was like a knife in my fucking heart.
Of course I know it’s fake. I’m reminded of it every time he crosses my mind. Every time my body heats from his deep voice. When his hazel eyes always tucked under his black cowboy hat, cross my mind.
When I think of our kiss in the bar parking lot.
Believe me, I know nothing about this is real.
“You don’t know that. Plus, from what I saw, it didn’t look like anyone was coming to Todd’s rescue. Think of it as PR. Maybe we can spin it as you only wanting sponsors that uphold a sense of integrity. A real family establishment. Just like you’re trying to promote.”
“I’m not sure anyone would believe that. In case you forgot, I almost threw the first punch.”
“Defending my honour. He was clearly not respecting the fact that I’m here with you.”
“I’m sure they’ll really think this is a ‘family establishment’ with you being here as my fake girlfriend,” he sneers.
“Whether or not this is fake is irrelevant. We’ve come out as a couple, and we stay out as a couple until this is done. As far as everyone else is concerned, we are a real couple. No one needs to know otherwise.”
Chance rounds the desk so fast I barely register it until he’s in front of me. His height is imposing, especially since I kicked off my shoes. It doesn’t stop me from straightening my spine, raising my chin and meeting his gaze with my fists on my hips.
“And you think what you say goes? I could just as easily discard you like the other women. At least with them, they shut their mouths and open their legs for me.” He takes a step towards me. I instinctively take a step back.
I know he’s acting this way to make me leave—to scare me. And if I’m being honest with myself, it’s working. But I won’t let him see that. Instead, I stand straighter and square my shoulders, tipping my chin up.
“You’re being crude to push me away, but it’s not going to work.”
“You don’t have the faintest idea why I do what I do.”
He takes a step forward and I instinctively take a step back. We continue this dance until my back hits the door; his body pressing against mine, letting me feel the hardness of his chest and his lengthening arousal on my stomach. It’s a relief to know I’m not the only one angry and turned on at the same time.
I look down from his eyes, seeing a cut on his lip that has scabbed over already. “You’re hurt.”
“I’m fine,” he grunts.
I raise my hand to brush along his chin, but he moves, not letting me touch him.
“Then let me in,” I whisper, barely a breath between our lips.
“Why do you care?” His voice is lower but still holds a hard edge. The smoky aroma of his whiskey washes over me, wrapping around me, drawing me closer to him.
“You need someone to talk to, Chance.” I draw my gaze away from his lips and focus on his eyes.
“And you think that someone should be you?” He smirks, his eyes turning colder. “Have me spill my guts to you, divulge all my emotions, only to have you gone in a couple of weeks? I don’t think so.”
There it is. The reminder of our limited time again. I don’t know why I always feel like it’s a punch to the gut knowing our time is coming to an end, but it is.
“If not me, talk to Wyatt. Talk to someone.”
“What if I don’t want to talk?” He doesn’t give me a chance to answer before he crashes his lips to mine, winding his fingers through my hair, gripping me so tight it hurts.
I clutch at his shirt, my nails clawing along his exposed chest. I don’t fight him, instead, I give in to his kiss; deepen it, desperate to make him hurt like he’s hurt me. The taste of whiskey on his tongue is intoxicating; hypnotizing me to forget what an asshole he’s been.
His hands roam from my hair, down my sides, and to the hem of my skirt. “You’ve been driving me fucking crazy in this dress.” His fingertips brush the skin of my thigh, leaving a trail of goosebumps.
Heat pools in my core at his caress. He has no right to be this soft and gentle with me after how he was just a moment before. It’s not him, and I don’t want it. I want the asshole Chance Declan. The one that uses women and tosses them aside. I want it, because I need to treat him the same way, or I’ll never survive this agreement.
