Page 46 of Her Game Plan

I shoot a look at Finley that I hope she interprets as the death glare it is before following Callan.

She smiles.

I hate my friends.

“You were already in your pajamas, weren’t you?” I question, using the oh-shit handle to pull myself into the passenger seat.

He waits until he’s seated next to me to reply, “Do you really think I sleep in pajamas, Princess?”

My gaze drops to his crotch, and I quickly pull it back to his face. “Do you sleep naked?” I whisper, like somehow the knowledge cannot be shared at a normal volume.

He turns his head quickly, our eyes meeting briefly as he whispers, “I do.”

And, oh fuck, it’s like a bolt of lightning went straight to my core. I scoot my hips in the seat ever so slightly, hoping the light pressure change will be enough to kick Horny Charlotte clear the hell out of this car. That not working, I slip my heels off to see if a little more air on my skin will help. Maybe I should roll down the window.

“Do you sleep naked?” Callan asks with a cough. This is not the conversation I needed to get my damn libido to calm the fuck down.

“I sleep in a chemise. You know, one of those silky little dresses, with lace around the edges that you see in movies?”

“I”—he clears his throat—“do know. Yeah. Just didn’t think people actually wore them in real life.”

“What did your last girlfriend sleep in? Actually, you know what? Don’t answer that. I’m not sure I want to know. I really like the way it feels on my skin. And I sleep hot, so I like having something on, but it has to be cool. I have about ten different ones. My favorite is this royal-blue one I got in New York. It’s so soft. In the winter, I sleep in a two-piece satin pajama set that’s silk pants and a cami.”

I’m barely aware of the garbage coming out of my mouth at this point. My mind has fully left the present, taking this moment to show me exactly how much fun Callan and I could have if we were to show each other our sleep attire. Fuck, imagining Callan naked, his body pressed against mine. Pushing my nightie up slowly as I wrap my fist around—

What if someone else already got to see Callan’s sleep attire tonight? The thought from earlier surges back, consuming the far more interesting fantasy.

Shit. Is he fucking someone when I’m not around? I know he isn’t when I’m there, which I appreciate, but I can’t remember whether we discussed it. We definitely should have. It seems like an important thing to include in this whole fake-dating agreement. Though we didn’t really have much of an agreement. He simply said yes. What if some other woman asked him to fuck her, and he said yes? What if—

“Are you sleeping with anyone else?” I blurt out.

Callan’s eyebrows reach for his hairline. “Anyone else? Am I sleeping with someone I wasn’t aware of?” His tone is teasing, but his hands are tight around the wheel. Maybe he doesn’t want to tell me.

Fuckity, fuck, fuck. “I meant—”

“I’m not.” His eyes dart to me quickly before going back to the road. “I’m not sleeping with anyone currently.”

I give him a thumbs-up. A fucking thumbs-up. “Okay. Great. Just wanted to double-check, because, you know, the fake dating and all.”

It definitely has nothing to do with the way my heart rate is spiking, my thighs pulling together as I try to relieve the pressure building inside me.

We sit in awkward silence for a moment before he asks, “Are you?” His eyes remain locked on the windshield. “Sleeping with anyone?” I swear his molars grind together, but I’m not sure why. Unless he feels as possessive as I seem to.

I slowly shake my head. “I’m not. Haven’t been for a while.”

Another silence.

“So, we shouldn’t have any problems with the dating timeline we came up with on that front. Nobody to call me out for sleeping with them while we were together.” It’s the best I can do. I’m barely holding in the words to ask him why not. To ask him if he wants to sleep with someone. To ask him if he wants it to be me.

Callan pulls his bottom lip between his teeth and gnaws on it for a moment before saying, “I shouldn’t have any problems with that timeline, either.”

I slip my shoes back onto my feet as we approach the house. “I guess we’re just two horny assholes, then.”

His throat bobs. “You’re horn—I guess we are.” It’s a low murmur, one that feels like he’s stroking the inside of my thighs.

This is fake. This is fake.

This is fake.