Page 14 of Against The Rules

“I’m not having sex with you,” I blurt out. “We didn’t, last night, I mean, right?”

“No, we didn’t,” he agrees, and I’m too cowardly to open my eyes and look at him. “Of course not. If you don’t want to consummate our marriage, that’s your choice. Not my choice… but—we just have to put on a show for my parents. That’s all.”

“Right.” It comes out so breathy and husky that there’s no way I’m fooling either of us about sex.

Now it’s all I can think about. Sex. With him.

Well, maybe he wasn’t lying about being able to teach me to be sexy, after all.

Shit.

Am I really considering this?

Money to start my own business. Figuring out how to loosen up so I dance better.

This is everything I wanted, right? Right? I open my eyes and blow out a breath.

Just one small string attached… to a gorgeous football player who’s grinning at me like he knows the only thing I can manage to think about when I look at him is sex. With him.

Luckily for me, someone knocks at the door, cutting the silent tension between us as he finally, blessedly, looks away.

I don’t want him looking at me like that. I’m so not having sex with him.

But when he looks at me like that, with something raw and vulnerable in his eyes, it makes me think about one thing.

I gulp, standing up, one hand braced against the wall, as he strides towards the door and lets the room service cart in.

The cart rolls in, one wheel squeaking underneath the long white tablecloth, and the smell of bacon and sausage and hot coffee fills the hotel suite. My stomach grumbles, my eyes taking in the bevy of silver-domed dishes. Way more than the two of us could possibly hope to eat.

There’s even a bottle of champagne chilling in a silver bucket engraved with the hotel’s insignia… and a vase full of scarlet roses.

My eyebrows lift in surprise.

“For you and your bride,” the liveried guy says, then grins as he pockets the wad of cash Ty hands him.

The door closes, and Ty turns the lock, the sound loud in the silence of the suite.

It’s just me and him and a whole lot of food.

And we are married.

“I hope you’re hungry,” he says, lifting off a lid, steam billowing from the plate. “You really do need to eat after last night,” he adds, and there’s an urgent note of concern that catches me off guard.

Like he actually cares about me.

I slam that thought down, wrestling it to the back of my mind.

No. He doesn’t care about me; this isn’t some romantic gesture. We made a mistake and now we’re using each other in a mutually beneficial arrangement.

He gets a buffer from his family, and I get money for my art business.

I just need to stay focused.

But as his lips close around a plump strawberry, his eyes going heavy-lidded, I know I’m already dangerously close to even more bad choices.

Eye on the prize, Savannah.

“I’ll do it,” I announce, and his eyes fly open, his jaw twitching as he chews. “You fund my stationery and art business, and I’ll pretend to be your girlfriend in front of your family. We keep everything secret. No pictures, no social media. You teach me how to, er, how to—”

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