Page 23 of Never Say Yes To Your Fake Husband

“Yeah. Foot photos. You haven’t heard of that? If I hadn’t found you when I did, I probably would have resorted to it, although I don’t think it was as popular then as it is now.”

“Are you serious?” Sterling gasps.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen eyes so wide. “Yeah. I wish. I think it can be a legit career. If you don’t want to dive in with both feet, you can just dip your toes in.” I giggle at my own terrible joke and reach for the bag of mini-colored marshmallows. Rainbow galore, here we come. “That might sound extra dirty.” I dump the whole bag into the pot. “Anyway, I’m kidding about that, Ireally am. But it would be a good backup plan. I’ve always had it in my head if all else fails. Once you start freelancing online, you hear about the extras, and then theextras, and it probably spirals from there, like picking a loose thread and having the whole darn sweater come undone.

“But is it that bad? I think it’s pretty innocent. It’s just feet. There are obviously way worse things to put out there. Or way better things. If you were a hand model, you wouldn’t get the same kind of grief. Why are hands so much classier than feet? There’s probably a good chance I’m overthinking this.” There’s a hundred percent chance I’m rambling. And over-stirring this. “All the power to people who do the feet thing. I think they must have unchained souls. They seem wild and free and unbound by the norms and conventions of society. To all the feet photo posting individuals, I give you two big toes up.”

It takes a second, but the first low rumblings of a laugh start. It gets louder and more rowdy, and then it’s a full-on belly laugh, and I have to turn to look.

Turning to look is a mistake.

Sterling is a gorgeous, sexy, beautiful beast of a man, and when he’s belly laughing? Dear god, I’m finished. Slain. Done like this marshmallow dessert that I’m dumping into the pan I’ve set out on the counter for it to solidify and cool in.

“Is this too much?” Sterling asks.

“What?” I whip around and nearly fling half of the pot’s contents across the room. I have to control my body and keep my hands centered over the baking pan. “Is what too much?”

There’s a very fine line between intelligence and brawn. Or no, I suppose not. It’s more like there’s a recipe for how much brains and how much brawn is sexy. That ratio isn’t set in stone. It varies from person to person. I suppose that’s what people term attraction and personality. Why one person works for you while another doesn’t. Alright, there’s a good chance I have no flippingidea what I’m talking about. I love intelligence. Maybe I should just say that. Muscly goodness is just a bonus. But emotional stuff? Where does that factor in? Sterling is obviously smart, and he’s even more obviously good-looking. Muscly, brawn, and brains. But the emotional intelligence aspect? It seems totally new to him. He’s so used to being shut down, and now we’ve done this outpouring with each other. I think that’s what he’s talking about.

“What you told me?” I prod gently because his jaw is working, but no sound is coming out. He’s clearly having trouble with the words.

“I mean this. Us. Me. You. I have no idea how this is supposed to work.”

I’m half pouring out marshmallow goo and the other half with my neck cranked around like an owl, though not quite because I’m not that talented. “Just hold that for a second. That thought.” I finish what I’m doing, set the pot aside, pat down the dessert, pop the pan in the fridge, and turn back around.

“I don’t think either of us knows how marriage is supposed to be because we haven’t been married before. And dating? It’s been a long time since I did that.”

I let my eyes do a slow perusal over the rugged features of Sterling’s face. He shaved this morning, so the shadow is gone, but his face is angular enough that he has all the mountain man vibes. Those jeans are really doing it for me, and so is his shirt. I can imagine how I’d like a few things to go.

Are we going to have steamy closet sex one day? I think that might be even better than any bathroom sex, the backseat of a car sex, or on top of some public monument sneaky sex I’ve ever dreamed of. Not that I’ve really ever dreamed of that or think it’s a thing. You just hear about it happening, and I couldn’t not admire the bravery and guts it must take. Or just like regularsteamy sex? I’d take that right now. Wait, umm, no, not right now. Jesus. The hormones are clearly out of control.

I feel like I’m a million degrees, so even though I just put the dessert in the fridge, I rush toward it and take the dessert back out. I slip a knife from the utensil drawer and cut a few quick slabs, which are still more like hot, sticky messes than pieces, but whatever. It’s something to do with my hands. Maybe if I concentrate hard enough on this, I can force air back into my lungs.

The air is all butterscotch, peanut butter, and marshmallows, but all of a sudden, there’s pine and fresh air andman.

I freeze. I can sense Sterling behind me before he reaches past me for the pan. His hands look huge, capable, and a little bit veiny. His skin tone is naturally darker, more of an olive undertone, so they look the slightest bit tanned. And that’s it for air and my lungs and me. We’re all finished.

“I’ve never had this before,” he comments.

“N—no?” I choke out. “It’s in—incredible.”

“What do you call it?”

“M—marsh—marsh…” I know what’s wrong with me.He’swhat’s wrong with me.He’swhy I can’t get the words out or why I’m going to pass out from ovary overload and lack of air. “Marshmallow peanut butter squares. Or peanut butter butterscotch squares.”

Sterling chuckles. “That’s a long name for something that smells so delicious.”

“They are delicious. They’re worth the effort and the long name. I promise.”

There’s the slightest pause. I know this is a weird breakfast. Maybe he doesn’t eat sugar or carbs. Maybe I should have asked before I—

“Will you feed them to me?” he murmurs, his voice low.

My stomach bottoms out, and my heart goes into so high an overdrive mode that it’s probably dangerous. I can feel it banging around in my chest. I can also feel every single part of me that is distinctly female heating up, tightening, throbbing, and causing all sorts of general chaos.

“Sure. Let me just…let me just get the knife and a plate and—”

“No. Willyou feed them to me?”

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