Page 121 of Boyfriend of the Hour
He’s a terrible cook. Maybe even worse than me. Which is shocking because he seems really good at everything else.
He’s aDunedork. Apparently, he’s read the series five times. He reads a little every night before he goes to sleep. A lullaby of giant sand worms.
He has a thing for weird socks. So far, I’ve seen crazy scientists, raccoons, and Sasquatch.
We made a surprisingly domestic fake couple, spending the rest of the weekend recovering from the party together despite not having an audience or any real reason to be. We worked out together in the top floor gym, made dinner (which mostly consisted of me watching from the kitchen island while Nathan heated up premade meals), and lounged in the living room, Nathan reading a book while I watched Netflix on my tablet or scrolled on my phone. Once, we took advantage of a break in the wintry weather to walk up Riverside Drive. Outside, Nathan held my hand just because. I didn’t stop him.
I just liked being around him. The stark differences between us didn’t seem to matter. Nathan didn’t care that I wasn’t up to speed on Nobel Prize-winning novels or that I indulged in scanning celebrity gossip sites while I drank my coffee, and I didn’t care that he barely knew who Taylor Swift was or why people were so obsessed with her love life.
Sometimes, we talked, and sometimes we didn’t. I didn’t have to figure out how to sound extra charming to make him forget I wasn’t that smart. And I thought he felt some of the same relief in not having to paste on that awkward smile he wore throughout most of the dinner with his colleagues.
We could just be.
And it was really, really nice.
Nathan finished his notes, but when he looked up at me, he jolted and barely caught his computer from slipping off his lap.
I grinned. “That good, huh?”
I twirled around in a red satin dress that barely went past my butt. It was one of the many pieces from Bergdorf’s, and I’d put it on just to see that look on Nathan’s face.
Mission accomplished.
Nathan set his computer aside, and I watched with satisfaction as the muscles in his neck fluttered while he swallowed.
“I—do you know what black tie means?” he asked, though he wasn’t quite able to tear his gaze away from my bare legs.
“It meansyouhave to wear a black tie, right?” I quipped as I twirled around, enjoying the way he didn’t blink. Not once. “I figure this will make a splash. You want people to know I’m there. Arriving in something shorter than an ice-skating costume will do it, don’t you think?”
I was playing with fire, I knew. I had no right to flirt with this man like this, especially when he didn’t seem to pick up on half the cues anyway.
But I couldn’t help it. I already liked it when people looked at me. But Nathan’s dark-eyed smolder seemed to matter more than most.
Finally, he managed to close his mouth. “You’re joking. This is a joke.”
“Yes, you dork, it’s a joke.” I flopped onto the sofa next to him and set my feet on the coffee table. “Can you imagine what people would say if I showed up in this? I think it might actually be lingerie. They’d probably think I was a call girl.”
Nathan looked more than a little uncomfortable with that idea but didn’t say anything.
“And for the record, I know what black tie means. I had a prom too.”
I nudged him in the shoulder. He didn’t move away.
There had been a lot of that over the weekend. “Accidental” touching. In the hall. The kitchen. Brushing arms when we reached for a mug or getting caught in a doorway together when no one moved first.
Maybe I wasn’t the only one walking a fine line between real-life flirting and this pretend play.
