Page 48 of The Fake Dating War

His eyes instantly glaze over as if he’s suffering from a spontaneous concussion.

No problem. My shrieking question does the work of pulling him out of it. “What are you doing here?!”

Pupils darken as he looks over the length of me, and then he turns his head to the wall so fast a muscle must have pulled. “She—your sister—told me you wanted to see me in here!”

I’ll kill her. I’ll kill her and hide the body.

As if summoned for her murder, her voice rings from outside the fitting room.

“What do you think, Jake? Reema said you would like that one.”

Coleman stumbles towards the exit, but I grab his elbow at the last second, forgetting what I’m wearing, or, more accurately, what I’mnotwearing. He can’t flee out of here as if he’s about to throw-up! Not if I want a chance of convincing my family we are together.

Of course, he pulls away as if my body is acid, trying to avoid any point of contact other than where my fingers grip his biceps. It’s brutally tense underneath my hand.

“He thinks the bow is cute,” I say, shocked my voice is coming out remotely even. Coleman has basically seen me naked. He’s seen my arms, legs, and most of my tits, considering how nipples poke out from the edge of this bodice.

“Stop feeding him answers,” chides my sister.

“Is asking all this kind of inappropriate?” Pooja speaks out, a spot of unlikely reason.

“Maybe not,” my sister reluctantly admits. “Okay. Yeah. We’re browsing on the other side of the store and will distract the owner. You two have your moment in there.”

We hear footsteps fade as they drift off.

I let go of Coleman.

He steps away again, but I warn him, “You can’t leave. You have to stay. For a moment.” And then I take a breath and mutter, “And you might as well see me in this.”

My name is a curse on his lips. I bite back my annoyance—and the hurt. I know. Such a hardship it must be to look at your work enemy in this state, but he’s practically seen it already.

Noticing how my hands have covered my top and some of the space between my legs since the hem seems to keep rising, I force myself to relax my arms at my side. It might not be the fittest body I’ve had, but I’m not going to quiver in the corner as if I’mundesirable.

Looking at Coleman, I see he’s more interested in staring at the mannequin.

“She’s going to quiz you on how I look,” I say, “and technically, you should know the shape of my body since we’re supposed to be sleeping with each other. I have certain birthmark freckles on my thighs.” Plus, the damage is done, so what is a little more? If I pretend this doesn’t bother me, it won’t. “Since you struggle so much with lying, you can finally speak from a source of truth.”

“Christ,” he bites off, his voice barely audible. “Don’t do this to me.”

That’s not the reaction you want when offering a man a freebie peek. “No.You’re right. What am I thinking? Obviously, I am not going to make you do something you are so opposed to doing.”

“You… want me to look?”

“I meant once?—”

I’m about to tell him he’s off the hook, and that, of course, I’m sure this violates many work HR policies. And that I’m sorry for sexually harassing him by demanding he do this in the first place, but then I lose my chance because Coleman does it. He turns around.

That’s when I see the front of his pants. They are absolutely distended. Now, my ex had a nice, average-sized penis, and since I prefer written erotica to porn, I’ve not seen a real erection in a long time. Have they always been so damn big?

He moves to cover himself. “Can you not?”

The man has some nerve! “Isn’t that a bit hypocritical, considering I’m letting you stare at me?”

“I’ve got permission.”

So he says, but he hasn’t exactly looked yet. His eyes are now fixed on the space above my head, as if direct eye contact is going to burn his retinas.

“That’s quite a weapon you’ve got,” I observe, fighting so hard to be casual about all this. “Why has it come out? Don’t tell me you’re turned on by me?”

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