Page 31 of Charming Deception

He doesn’t seem happy, though.

Whatever wisp of rapport I’d sensed while we talked about my books has been replaced by the same cool formality as before. But at least he’s admitted what I guessed: the job was Cole’s idea. And now that he knows why I’m broke, he probably pities me.

We’ve wandered all the way to the grand entrance of the living room, where the two halls spread out in either direction. I have no idea where he sleeps, but obviously, not in the guest wing.

I pause, and so does he, his hands jammed in his pants pockets.

“I guess this is where I leave you.” I fill the silence, feeling awkward when he says nothing. It makes me squirm.

No. It makes me hot. Like everything else he does.

Yeah, there’s no way he’ll be less hot in the morning.

Just a few hours ago, he was the billionaire in the luxury SUV and fine suit, and I was the train wreck in the street, blocking traffic with my cheap, broken suitcase. My broken life.

It’s inconceivable that we’re standing here together right now.

And yet we are.

The odd moment stretches out, like we’re now at the end of the bizarre first date. And we’re both contemplating whether or not we’re going to kiss.

But that’s ridiculous. He isn’t thinking about kissing me.

“Have a good sleep, Megan.” His voice is low and brushes across my senses like velvet. It makes me want to pet him.

“Good night, Jameson.” I almost thank him again, but that’s just getting sad.

For all I know, he’s been judging me and my life choices—harshly—this entire time. When it comes to his private thoughts, the man is giving nothing away.

I turn and head toward the guest wing. All the way up the hall, I feel the lingering warmth of his attention, like he’s watching me. But when I reach the end of the hall and glance back, Jameson is gone.

It strikes me that he’d make one hell of a character in a book.

I just have no idea yet if he’d be the hero or the villain.

Chapter 8

Jameson

“I’m a lot tougher than you seem to think,” Rowan says stubbornly. “You know, I grew up with four brothers.”

“Right, I almost forgot. Four brothers who were probably tit fed until they were twelve and had their asses wiped for them with daisies.”

I smirk, because I was raised with older brothers like that. And my sister has four brothers, just like Rowan.

I can already relate to this book.

This Jessica Rivers is a decent author.

I put my feet up on the lounger, settling back into the deeper shade where I can read the screen on my tablet better. It’s sunny this morning, the sky a vibrant, clear blue overhead.

“If we run into someone out here,” I tell her, digging through the ratty clothes in the abandoned shack we’ve come across, “it’s not gonna be one of your precious brothers, so spare me the ‘I can handle anything that you can’ act.” I toss some clothes on the table. “Put these on.”

“I will not.” She looks scandalized. “They’re dirty and they’re men’s.”

“And I told you, that dress will get you killed. You can’t even run in that thing.”

“How will it get me killed? It shows I have value.”

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