Page 22 of The Replacement Fiance

As I slide under the covers, it's hysterical seeing the ocean of space between us as she clings to the side of the bed for dear life.

"You comfortable over there?" I ask.

"Not really. I might fall over if I fall asleep."

"Then come here. I don't bite... well, unless you want me to."

She arches an eyebrow. "That's not helping, Logan."

"Come here," I murmur, serious this time as I shift away from my edge of the bed and she does, too, sliding her head over my arm on the pillow. I can feel my body tingling the moment I feel her body press against mine.

"Just know that I'm not going to touch you... not in that way," I murmur. "Well, not unless you want me to, but we know that's not on the table."

We don't talk for the next few minutes even though it feels as if there's so much that needs to be said. I can feel her warm breath against the hollow of my neck where her head is nestled against my shoulder, her hair smelling of lavender and oranges. When she begins to run her fingers along my chest, I wonder if maybe this wasn't such a brilliant idea after all.

"You feel good," she murmurs. "Your pecs are so hard–"

"That's not helping, Mariah."

When she pulls her hand away, I wish I'd kept my mouth shut. "It's just an observation."

"Why, thanks," I say, grinning. "You feel really good, too. Soft and–"

"That's not going to help us either, Logan."

I chuckle. "It was just an observation."

As Mariah makes herself comfortable in my arms, I force myself to think of other things like truck engines and motorcycles. Anything to keep my mind off the fact that there's a gorgeous woman in my arms and all I want to do is kiss her and make love to her. The signals have all been there, the push and pull between us, the clenching of my belly and the rush of blood where it shouldn't be going if I'm to remain just her friend. But that's the problem—I don't want to be just her friend anymore.

But what if I've been reading the signals all wrong? What if Mariah just wants us to be friends after this?

How'd I go from having full control at the beginning of the day to this? But I also don't want to trade this moment for the world even if it may end up being an uncomfortable night sleeping on a bed that's too narrow for two people who aren't exactly sleeping together. I clear my throat and she looks up. "If, some time in the night, my hand ends up where it's not supposed to be... just a brush or something, just know that it's not intentional."

"No problem," she says as she shifts positions, doing her best to position her upper arm comfortably. When her hand brushes against my thigh, she freezes. "Sorry. Not intentional."

"That's okay."

"Maybe if I just turn the other way?"

As she rolls onto the other side, facing away from me, the scent of her hair and the feel of her body pressing against mine assails my senses.

"Is that okay?" she asks and I grunt yes. It's the only thing I can say for her new position means we're now spooning.

Great.

10

Mariah

I've forgottenhow it feels to wake up in someone's arms but this morning, I'm reminded of how good it feels. Considering that it's Logan, it's even better than I ever imagined. With his arms circled around my waist, his face nuzzled in my neck, his breath warming my skin, it feels... amazing.

I probably haven't moved an inch since I closed my eyes last night, afraid that if I did, he'd pull his arm away or worse, one of us would roll off the bed. But we're still here, nestled under the covers and in my case, pretending to be asleep even as my body yearns for more of his touch. Maybe a kiss, just like the one yesterday.

Stop it, Mariah. Yesterday was a practice kiss, nothing more.

But as the sun's rays slip between the curtains, casting the bedroom in a soft ethereal glow, I also know that practice kiss or not, the sensations that came after had nothing to do with the charade we both find ourselves in. Why do I keep denying the truth, that I've liked Logan for some time now? That I anticipate seeing him walk through the door of my shop every Friday morning to pick up the hand-tied floral arrangement I make for his mother, the one with her favorite flowers I know by heart? Pink Asiatic lilies, purple daisy poms and alstroemeria with white waxflowers and purple statice.

Logan stirs behind me, his arms tightening as I press myself against him. I feel his body respond, the warmth of his lips brushing against the back of my neck, his stubble tickling my skin. There's another reaction, too, pressing against the back of my thigh.

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