Page 50 of The Small-Town Seduction Plan

DUKE

“Look sharp, Hendricks.”

I lift my pounding head just as a bag of screws sails past it and lands in the dirt. “C’mon, Kyle,” I grumble, going to retrieve them. “It’s too early for this bullshit. You can’t throw stuff around on the site.”

Kyle snorts. “Dude. My toddler could have caught that. You’re off your game today. Late night with your movie star?” he asks, smirking.

The other guys laugh along. “Must’ve been a hot date.”

“Looks like you didn’t sleep a wink!”

“Hey now,” I scowl, waving them away. “You know a gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell. Back to work!”

They disperse, leaving me to gulp the rest of my stale coffee and wish for a stray meteor hurtling towards Earth to put me out of my damn misery.

It was a late night, alright– I spent it collapsed on the bathroom floor, vomiting my guts out. Now I feel like I’ve just gone ten rounds with an angry bull, and all the cold caffeine and pedialyte in the world aren’t helping.

The whole night was a goddamn disaster.

From the moment Avery greeted me on the doorstep, looking like every man’s dream, I was doomed. She looked flawless, and stunning, and perfect – and I keep forgetting that I can’t believe a single word that comes out of her damn mouth.

Because she’s an actress.

She’s made it clear, this is just another role to her, and she knows exactly what to do and say to make the world believe it’s for real. Hell, she had me believing it myself with that kiss other night: panting softly in my arms, pressing closer, so soft and hot and perfect it took a half-hour under an ice-cold shower to recover; jerking off over a simple make-out like I was some hormonal teenage boy.

But I’m not the only one reeling. The whole town is wrapped around her finger. She had that pack of photographers eating out of her hand, and the whole restaurant watching all through dinner. Everything she does is all for show.

Except…

There are moments when it’s clear, she’s not faking. When that big, flashy smile turns into something quieter. Genuine. When her face lights up with passion, talking about the big role she wants to win, or she gets so annoyed that she’s not trying to hide her sharp tongue and wicked sense of humor anymore.

When she’s whimpering on the bathroom floor because I picked a damn health hazard for a dinner date.

I groan. Christ. After the vomit debacle last night, I wouldn’t be surprised if she called this whole fake-relationship deal off. At least then, I wouldn’t be stuck in the middle of this three-ring circus with her for a moment longer. That should be a relief, at least.

Right?

The sound of wolf whistles comes, and I look up to find the woman herself sashaying across the construction site like it’s a catwalk.

Avery.

She’s wearing a tiny pair of pink shorts, and a blouse that knots at her waist, toting a big beach bag as she greets all my crew with a sunny smile.

“Good morning!” she trills, finally reaching me. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” I lie.

She smirks. “You look it.”

I scowl. Then I remember, last night’s disaster was technically my fault. “I’m sorry,” I admit grudgingly. “For, you know…”

“The cold sweats and vomiting?” Avery replies sweetly. “I can’t say I’ve ever had a date end with quite so much disinfectant.”

“Good thing it wasn’t a real one,” I agree.

Avery swallows. “Right. Well, I brought a little apology of my own.” She rummages in her bag, and produces a thermos, and a takeout container. “Black coffee, and the diner’s famous breakfast sandwich. Extra mayo,” she adds with a smirk.

I don’t even care. I yell to the other guys to take their break, and then wolf down the food without pausing for breath.

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