Page 41 of Pretending I'm Yours

He nods, his eyes flashing the way they do when he’s having a brilliant idea. “I know where I’m going to take you tomorrow night. I’ll make reservations when we get home.”

“Where?” I ask.

“It’s a surprise,” he says, grinning smugly. “But you’re going to love it, no doubt in my mind.”

“Well, you’re batting a hundred so far.”

He arches a brow. “I hope you mean a thousand. A hundred wouldn’t be too great.”

I laugh as I confess, “Yes, a good batting number, whatever that is. I’m not a sports person. Can you tell?”

He puts an arm around me, hugging me against his side. “I had an inkling. But that’s fine by me. Artsy people are better than sporty people, anyway. I mean, I love catching a ball game or watching hockey with my cousins, but I never leave a sporting event feeling like I’ve grown as a person the way I do the opera or an afternoon here.”

I nod, marveling at the giant buddha that fills the final room in the Asian Art Wing. It’s at least twenty-five feet tall and exudes a sacred energy that lifts the hairs on my arms as we pass by on our way to the mezzanine. “I get that. Though I did enjoy watching Sully and Elaina play rugby in high school. I loved how fierce they were on the field.”

“Sully,” he echoes, his brow furrowing. “You mentioned her earlier, right? The photographer?”

“Yeah,” I say, amazed that he remembered. This man is actually paying attention, a thing nearly as sexy as the way his broad shoulders fill out a sweater. “We’ve been friends forever.”

“One of my friends is dating a woman named Sully,” he says. “I think it’s a nickname, but?—”

“Oh, yeah, it’s a nickname for my friend, too. Her real name is Gertrude, so we used to call her Gertie. But lately she’s liking ‘Sully’ better.” I laugh. “Which is also a nickname, short for Sullivan, her last name.” I blink faster, as I start to wonder… Could it even be possible? “Your friend’s name isn’t Weaver, is it?”

His face goes completely blank for a moment in a way I’ve never seen it before, but before I can wonder what the heck that’s all about, he smiles and shakes his head. “No, his name is Brian, but Weaver sounds familiar, too. Must be one of those days, when everything has a hint of déjà vu.” He motions to our right. “We’re in here. The Patrons Lounge.”

He reaches for the door, holding it open for me, and I forget about the strange moment as I take in the warm and welcomingspace. The lounge is peaceful, all wood paneling and comfortable leather chairs, with small tables beside them holding tea trays for the patrons enjoying an afternoon treat. A fire crackles in a marble fireplace on the far side of the room, and to say I’m thrilled when the hostess leads us to a table right beside it, is an understatement.

I love a fire.

And I love that Anthony orders three different varieties of Lapsang Souchong so we can do a side-by-side taste test.

And I love cucumber sandwiches and scones and tiny macarons in pink and green and all the other treats on our tray.

But most of all, I love how easily the conversation flows between me and this amazing man. I love the way he looks at me like he wouldn’t want to be anywhere else, the way he steals a kiss after wiping a macaron crumb from my lip, and how perfect it feels to leave the museum on his arm, headed back to his place in the dim light of an early winter sunset.

I’m falling for my fake boyfriend, no doubt about it.

But with his hand wrapped possessively around my thigh as our cab heads back to the Village, filling my already humming body with anticipation for the night to come, I can’t bring myself to care.

chapter 13

ANTHONY

Fuck me.

Fuck me hard. No lube.

I’m an idiot, and idiots don’t deserve lube.

What the hell was I thinking? I should have seen this coming. Maya’s a small-town girl from rural Maine; Weaver’s also originally from rural Maine and is now dating a woman from his hometown. Hell, I sent a friend of mine up there to help him troubleshoot issues with his family business almost two months ago.

I should have remembered the place was called Sea Breeze. If I had, the second Maya told me where she was from that night at the club, I could have ended things right then and there.

And I would have. At that point, Maya was an intriguing possibility, but one I would have been able to resist in the name of not royally fucking up my life. Getting caught pretending to be a prostitute by a friend and former employee—the same man who’s on my shortlist of people to take over for me at Baxter and Holloway—isn’t on my holiday wish list.

But now…

Now, the thought of letting Maya walk out of my life makes me physically ill. And angry. I want to fight the personthreatening to ruin things with this woman with my bare hands, but that person is…myself.

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