Page 10 of Fake It for Christmas

Rowen looked damn good.

Classy and sexy, like some sort of big city model. He was wearing a leather jacket that he shrugged off as he came inside, revealing a fitted, creamy-white cashmere sweater underneath.

He looked like a million bucks.

A million bucks in my shoddy old house. Quite the contrast.

I took the flowers and placed them on the little dining room table, marveling at their beauty. “I don’t think I’ve ever gotten flowers before. They’re so beautiful.”

“You’ve got a little something on your shirt,” he told me.

“Shit. I forgot,” I said, looking down at the sugar. “Let me go change. Make yourself at home.”

I rushed off to swap to a different long-sleeve shirt. When I came back to the kitchen I found Rowen with his head poking into a cabinet, with about six other cabinets thrown open around the kitchen.

“I’m starting to think you have a personal war against cups,” Rowen said. “You have about twenty different bowls, enough plates to feed an army, and like, ten water bottles, but…”

I reached over to another cabinet to open it, and showed him the inside. “I have two cups.”

He gave me a look like I was insane. “You have only two cups, and one of them has Lucy fromI Love Lucyon it and the other is a big, empty jar?”

I bit back a smile. “I know I said to make yourself at home, but now I’m kind of regretting that.”

“Two cups?” he repeated.

“Listen,” I told him, holding up my hands in defense. “The bowls I got as a gift from my mom. The plates were passed down from my Grandma when she died. The water bottles I got on my own, because I need them for the gym.”

“And you just haven’t gotten around to cups yet?”

“Exactly,” I said. “I tried to tell you, this house is a work in progress.”

…And my whole life is a work in progress, but that’s a different story.

“You are so fucking cute,” Rowen said, shaking his head as he grabbed my two mismatched glasses.

A new bloom of heat moved through me.

He said it so casually, like it was nothing to him to call me cute.

“Anyway. Whiskey?” he asked.

“Yes. Please,” I said, running my hands through my hair. “Today’s been a little stressful.”

“Let me guess. You were looking at different options for cups online and the sheerstressof having more than two sent you over the edge?”

I snorted. “Caught me. Even theideaof having matching cups puts me in a tailspin, Rowen.”

“What was so stressful about your day, really?” he asked.

“Well, the inn was swamped all day. Big group of newly retired people came to stay, and they each had their own specific requirements for the rooms. Stella Murray can’t stand an east-facing window, Reggie Dunn can’t deal with scented soap…”

Rowen gave me a look from under his dark rows of lashes. As he poured our glasses of whiskey, I was struck again that there was a very, very hot guy in my house.

He’s not attracted to you,I reminded myself.Down, boy.

“I had a side gig at the front desk of a hotel in the city for about two weeks, when I first left acting school,” Rowen said. “Itwas one of the most stressful things I’ve done. I don’t envy your job.”

“Sometimes it’s fun,” I said. “But it is always like walking on a tightrope, trying to keep customers happy.”

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