Page 11 of Friends Who Fake It

Besides, what about Tom, a voice in the back of her head demanded indignantly. True, they’d broken up, but that hadn’t been Willow’s choice. She’d been devastated, convinced she could win him back. So why was she suddenly feeling as though she was a tiny little bug that was stuck in Francesco’s spider web? Why did she suddenly feel as though she was minutely aware of every single one of his movements? Like the way his pants strained over his muscular thighs as he bent down to check the fireplace and add some more pinecones. Or the way his hands moved with such deft, confident motions. Or the richness of his tan, or the masculine angles of his face and body. She was not an artist, and yet she felt an urge to draw him on paper. She could easily imagine the sharp, bold lines she would use to render his frame.

“There,” he stood, rubbing his hands together, as flames began to light in the grate. “That will help.”

“You really don’t have to sleep on the floor.”

He shot her a droll expression. “You know there is only one way we could both sleep in a bed that size, Willow,” he said, slowly though, as if she really didn’t understand.

“Oh?”

“It would involve one of us spooning the other, all night long.”

She was tempted to say, ‘so?’ because they were both adults and could surely control themselves, but something held her back. And she didn’t need to be a rocket scientist to guess what that ‘something’ might be.

It was true that long term she intended to find a way to be with Tom, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t also be tempted by other men.

She forced a smile, though, in response to his description. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you don’t really seem like the spooning type.”

“No?”

“I’m guessing you’re more of a wham, bam, thank you, ma’am kind of lover.” Even referring to him as a ‘lover’ stirred something in her bloodstream. She dug her fingernails into her thighs with the effort it took to maintain a neutral expression.

“You wound me, Willow,” he said, but with a grin that belied his words.

She held up a hand, placatingly. “That definitely wasn’t my intention.”

He went to the settee and removed a throw blanket, placing that down on the ground, before striding to the bed to grab a couple of pillows. Her heart seemed to lurch into the base of her throat.

“I don’t tend to do long term relationships, but I’ve never been accused of kicking a woman out of my bed after sex.”

“Aww, so you do snuggle?” she teased, amazed that her voice didn’t reflect the sudden flash of irritation she got at the careless way he referred to lovers.

Which was ridiculous!

They weren’t actually a couple. This was all for show. Pretend. Him doing her a huge favour by coming to her parents’ home and pretending to be her doting boyfriend for the weekend, to get them off her case.

She had no businessactuallyfeeling jealous. Maybe she was a method actor, she considered. Isn’t that what method actors did? Throw themselves so completely into a role, any role, that theybecamethe character? As far as theories went, it seemed pretty plausible to Willow.

“What can I say? I’m a tactile person.”

Yes. Definitely method acting, if the erratic throb of her pulse was anything to go by.

He threw a grin over his shoulder as he flicked off the light switch then strode to his makeshift bed—she used that term very loosely—and lay down. The flames cast enough light for her to see that his long legs overshot the blanket by a ruler’s length at least. He lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling.

Still, it was way better to have him on the floor than in her bed, she reminded herself. Easier to keep the lines straight if they weren’t spooning, as he’d put it.

She flopped back onto the pillows, and gave the ceiling the same attention he was, eyes boring into the ancient plaster.

His breathing was soft, and even, so sometime later, she began to resent how easily he’d fallen asleep. She rolled onto her side and stared at the wall that housed her desk. Willow had spent term times at boarding school, but when she came home, she’d taken a form of refuge in here, and studied at the desk for hours at a stretch. When she hadn’t been studying, she’d devoured whatever she could find in her father’s prized library. There hadn’t been many contemporary titles—he’d inherited the library and knew enough about books to know that it was an impressive collection, but he was no collector. Nor was he a reader. The lack of modern offerings hadn’t bothered Willow, anyway. She’d lost herself in Dickens, Austen, Heyer, any of the classics she could lay her hands on.

“What’s the story with her, anyway?”

Willow blinked. “You’re still awake?”

“Evidently,” he drawled.

Her lips tugged to the side. “Who?”

“Your stepmother.”

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