Page 28 of Friends Who Fake It

But there was something about his easy, casual carelessness, about whether she came to Italy or not, his ability to neatly box her into this fake dating box, that made Willow’s vulnerabilities go into overdrive.

She knew it wasn’t forever, she knew he wasn’t her future. She knew sex was just sex, for someone like Francesco. But notwithstanding all of that, deep down, Willow knew that she still wanted more—she wanted him to want her...

Wanting more had the power to hurt, and she couldn’t be hurt again. Her heart, so battered by a childhood of constant wanting and never getting, throbbed its agreement.Protect me,it whispered, and Willow promised it she would. No matter what, she’d play it safe. This was just temporary, and she wouldn’t forget it.

ChapterEight

FRANCESCO HAD CO-EXISTED IN London for a long time, with Willow. They had both lived in the city for years, and yet knowing she was just a few suburbs away had never really been a big part of his thought process.

Until now.

Returning from the Cotswolds and dropping her off at her small mews house just off Gloucester Road, he’d found himself walking her to her door, carrying her small suitcase, and holding his breath while he waited to see if she’d invite him in. She didn’t. She smiled up at him, thanked him for being an excellent fake boyfriend—with benefits—and had slipped inside without a backwards glance.

But if she’d turned around and asked him to follow, he would have. He would have lifted her up into his arms, carrying her to a bed, or a sofa, or a carpeted rug, and made love to her all over again, giving his body what it had been craving since the morning after the party, when they’d explored one another in bed, slowly, this time, sensually, and with enough space to properly touch and be touched.

Willow was doing exactly what they’d agreed to and sticking to the boundaries. But as he stalked back to his car, he found his mind wandering to the trip the following weekend, to Italy, and suddenly, he no longer wanted her to back out. He wanted more of Willow, and the fact they’d formed this convenient, fake relationship gave him the perfect cover for that.

All he could think about, once he reached his own penthouse, was Willow. So much so he had to leave his phone in his bedroom to decrease the likelihood of weakening and calling her, inviting her over. That would be breaking the rules, changing the game they’d agreed to.

But after a sleepless night, and looking down the barrel of several more, he made the decision to get out of London, and away from temptation. He flew to New York without giving Raf any notice, deciding instead to simply arrive on his doorstep.

Only Raf wasn’t there.

Marcia answered, spoke two words to Francesco—neither of them pleasant. But after what she’d been through; could he blame her?

He dialled his brother’s number then, and when Raf answered, it was like he was talking to a ghost. His voice sounded so much like their father’s, from those awful dark days after their mother’s death. Deep, raw and affected by alcohol, despite the fact it was barely lunch time.

“Where are you?” he asked, tone grim.

“I don’t need a fucking saviour.”

“Good. Because that’s not what you’re getting.’

He could practically hear the cogs turning in Raf’s brain, and then, he named a bar in the Village.

Francesco caught a cab, and even then, worried sick about his brother, his mind wandered—without his permission—to Willow, so he was wondering what she was doing. Who she was with. Aching to call her. Aching for her in a way that infuriated him. True, sex with them had been insanely good, but it wasn’t like he hadn’t had great sex before.

First and foremost, she was his friend; he wasn’t going to do anything to jeopardise that.

Raf was in a booth at the back of the bar, staring straight ahead. Francesco took one look at him, contemplated dragging him back to his place, then decided against it, and ordered a couple of beers from the bar, on his way to the booth. He slid one over to Raf to get his attention—it earned him a flicker of a single brow, and a sound that might have been a grunt of greeting.

“I’d ask how you are, but it’s pretty evident.”

Another grunt.

Francesco sighed. “Raf, man, I don’t know what to say. It’s understandable that you’re feeling like this?—,”

Raf took the beer and drained half of it, then wiped the back of his mouth with his hand.

Francesco took a small drink of his own. “How’s Marcia?”

Raf’s eyes slide sideways to Francesco’s, his expression inscrutable. A shiver ran down Francesco’s spine; this wasnotlike his brother, at all. Raf was fair minded and generally a pretty easy-going guy. This was new. And not good new.

Then again, after what he’d been through, wasn’t that to be expected?

“I saw her,” Francesco admitted.

Raf’s eyes drifted to Francesco’s face, lingered there a moment, his expression no longer inscrutable, but rather, furious. “And?”

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