Page 49 of Lease to Love

I had been pacing my apartment for the better part of an hour.

The garment bag had been delivered sometime that afternoon, and it had been hanging from the hook on my bedroom door ever since, silently judging me.

I had showered. Shaved. Exfoliated. Moisturized every inch of skin I could reasonably reach without pulling a muscle.

I had even taken the time to deep-condition my hair before pinning it into a high bun and sticking little gold flowers into it because apparently, when faced with the possibility of going on a fake date with the man I had hated for three years, my brain had decided the appropriate response was to become a fully functioning spa.

Maya had called me during the whole ordeal, still pissed that I hadn't told her about "Sexy Sterling" being my new man, and I had spent twenty minutes listening to her alternate between being happy for me and demanding answers I absolutely did not have.

Then I'd gotten off the phone, looked at the garment bag, and decided I needed to reorganize my sock drawer.

I was currently standing in front of said sock drawer, staring at it like it contained the secrets of the universe.

It did not.

It contained socks.

Roman had said the car would be here in thirty minutes, which meant I had approximately thirty minutes left to avoid trying on the dress.

I looked at the garment bag again. Nope.

I picked up a sock. Nope.

I put it down.

I checked my phone even though there hadn't been a notification.

Since the morning of the live and the hand kiss that I was not thinking too hard about, Roman had texted me exactly once.

One message. No good morning. No checking in. No awkward follow-up about the fact that I had publicly introduced my landlord to twelve thousand people as my boyfriend. Nothing. Just delivery information for the dress, followed by the date and time I’d be picked up for the gala.

That was it.

Which was probably a good thing.

Probably.

I wasn't disappointed. Definitely not disappointed.

Because why would I be?

We were fake dating. This was a business arrangement. A strategic partnership with a very specific purpose and an expiration date.

There was absolutely no reason for my landlord to be texting me cute little messages throughout the week, and the fact that he hadn't was evidence that he understood boundaries.

Excellent.

Healthy.

Professional.

So why had I checked my phone approximately thirty-seven times since noon?

I shoved it onto the dresser.

"Because you're insane," I told my reflection in the mirror.

My reflection, unfortunately, had no useful rebuttal.