Page 2 of Fauxmance in the City

“You’ll find the full recipe on our website.” Holly takes another swig of water, her twilight skin shining in the bright lights. “We’re going to head over to Ed Priestly for the weather report. Then we’ll be back with more from Simply Chic’s Catelyn Bloom.”

Holly holds her smile, only relaxing when the red light clicks off. When Karen snatches her away, I hear Holly ask, “How many calories are in beets? I can only have nine hundred…” Her voice trails off, and I mouth a thank you to Natalie as I quickly scan my notes for the next segment.

“Husband Emergency: How to Handle a Bad Gift Giver.”

An hour later, I sit at my desk. A Masterclass video featuring Marie Kondo plays quietly on my computer screen, but I hardly pay attention. In my hands, I clasp a thick document, a mixture of excitement and terror churning in my stomach.

A movement in the doorway grabs my attention. Samuel Harding’s tall figure leans against the doorjamb, his light blue button-down shirt suspiciously familiar. The inky-black hair atop his head is stylishly disheveled.

“Weren’t you wearing that yesterday?”

He flashes a devilish smile.

“What happened to all those clean shirts you keep in your office for occasions such as these?” I raise an eyebrow coyly.

“I used the last one on Friday, and I forgot to replenish.”

It’s so annoying how perfectly Sam fits into his role as the managing editor at Edge Magazine, “for the adventure-sports enthusiast.”

“I don’t have the energy to berate you this morning.”

“What happened?” he asks, folding his arms, the sinewy veins of his muscles dancing under his tanned skin. I swallow over the lust bubble that leaps into my throat.

Man, oh man, my lady bits are hard up if I’m hungering for Sam this early in the morning. I mentally urge my libido to rein it in. I’ve never had a dry spell this long, and the Sahara Desert in my pants is eager for watering.

“I signed the papers for my new apartment last night.” It’s nine in the morning, but I reach into the stainless-steel minifridge behind my desk and pull out a bottle of champagne. Sam plucks two flutes from the bronze-and-glass bar cart. This should be an epic moment in my life, but becoming a homeowner means I’ve doubled down on the lies that got me here and sealed my fate.

“One thousand square feet of wood and plaster are all mine,” I say with a tiny shake in my voice. We clink glasses, and I sip the champagne.

“That’s a lot of wood.” Sam rests his butt on the edge of my desk, his crotch inches from my face.

I shove my chair back on its wheels and keep my eyes on him over the rim of the flute. “I can handle it.”

Sam barks out a laugh. “Oh, I bet you can.”

From behind his back, Sam plops a familiar white pastry bag on my desk. Inside are chocolate croissants from Natalie’s restaurant where she’s the head chef.

“When did you get these?” I ask, my stomach grumbling.

“I grabbed them from Chez Bella on my way to work. Nat put them aside for me. I knew you’d be starving.”

I shove the buttery goodness into my mouth, the chocolate melting on my tongue in a heavenly bite. “How did you know I’d need this?”

“You’re too nervous to eat the mornings you’re on Good Day.” Sam folds his lean form forward, close to my face, my cheeks puffed out from the large bite I’m chomping. I cover my stuffed mouth with my palm and swallow. I groan at the delicious chocolaty flavor.

“Natalie made them with extra filling.” Sam’s voice has dropped into his chest and his eyes are filled with a different kind of hunger watching my tongue sweep across my bottom lip looking for crumbs.

“Are you turned on right now?” I scoff, shoving at his chest. But it’s rock hard, and my chair rolls back and hits the wall behind me. I glance away, my cheeks warming at the unabashed heat in his eyes.

I tug my chair forward and bang his shoulder with my fist. “Go sit over there and stop being a hornball.”

“A hornball that got you this job, which is how you got your book deal, which is how you’re able to afford the apartment, which you’ve never thanked me for.” Sam strolls around the desk and sits in one of my Grant Featherston armchairs. “You’re welcome.”

I roll my eyes, but he’s right. Eons ago when my cousin Beth dated him, she mentioned the sudden success of my blog. It was right after one of my articles had been picked up by BuzzFeed and I’d blown up. Sam passed my info on to Patrick, who was searching for a new writer at Simply Chic. By the time I finished the interview process and was hired here, Sam had ruthlessly cheated on Beth, broken her heart, and I hated him with the fires of Dante’s nine circles of hell.

“Thanks,” I mumble and push the pastry across my desk. Sam leans forward and snatches it, his hand brushing mine, and sparks ignite under my skin where he touched me.

“Ever since I came out of the womb, Natalie’s been feeding me,” I say to shake us out of this weird lusty zone we’ve stumbled into. It’s not new territory, but I try and keep us on dry ground when we stumble into the quicksand of our sexual tension.

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