Page 32 of Knocked Up by My Fake Fiancé
I exhale. Honestly, if I'd known this was part of the deal, I might've thought twice. Living with a man I loathe—and can't stop wanting—is going to be torture.
Or maybe not.
It depends on the setup. We both work long hours; maybe we'll rarely cross paths except for appearances. From the sound of it, his homes are enormous. No conserving hot water so we both get a shower. No thumping neighbor music at two a.m. No suspicious smells from the ancient AC unit we can't afford to replace.
The thought gives me hope. "So we won't have to be around each other except when we're ‘on duty,' right?"
"No. You'll have your own space. We'll just leave some of your things in the master bedroom, mixed with mine, in case anyone looks."
I rub my chin, thinking. He watches me with those unreadable eyes. Then a thought strikes. Better make this crystal clear.
"Just to reiterate, this arrangement doesn't involve sex—so don't even think about it."
He smirks, and my stomach drops. Images flash behind my eyes: me on his desk, begging for more, the heat and power of him driving into me; the night on the dance floor, his hand sliding between my legs, teasing me until I forgot my own name.
A flush sweeps through me. I fold my arms to hide the evidence on my chest.
Yeah. Don't lie, Jenna—you'd enjoy the hell out of it.
But I still won't do it. Not for money.
I stamp the thought firmly in my head. I do not want to have sex with Grayson Wolfe. Maybe if I repeat it enough, it'll be true.
"No sex," he says, triggering equal parts relief and disappointment. "It even says so in the contract. Rest assured, this isn't a sexual arrangement. I make it a rule never to sleep with the same woman twice."
"I—" Whatever I was about to say dies on my tongue. "Wait, never?"
He doesn't answer. Instead, he glances at his watch. "We have to go. Pack. I'll wait."
Then he strolls over to the couch, sits, and stretches his long legs like he owns the place.
"The way you just order people around like that is kind of annoying," I tell him, my patience snapping. "Who do you think you are?"
He smirks. "The guy giving you a million dollars, that's who."
I sigh and head to my room.
As I pack some essentials, I set my text-to-speech app to read the contract aloud. Most of it sounds fine, except I have to agree to attend any events or gatherings he requires, no exceptions. That's a problem. I can't risk my business falling behind.
Another issue: Once we're seen together at these events, everyone in the city will assume we're dating. Questions willstart—how I got to plan the gala, what my connection is to him. People will probably think I slept my way into the job.
Well, that's annoying. Months of hard work, reduced to a snigger and a cynical laugh. Oh well. If I deliver, no one will care.
The door opens. "Honey, I'm ho—" Ashley's voice cuts off in a squeak.
Crap. I completely forgot she'd be home.
I'm supposed to tell her why I'm moving out—but the NDA forbids it. Ashley isn't just anyone, though. She'll know something's up. I'll have to improvise.
The air in the living room is thick. Grayson's lounging on the couch, and Ashley's staring at him like he's a ghost.
"Ash?"
She spins around, smiling tightly. "Hey, roomie. You didn't tell me we'd have company." Her eyes scream WTF?
"Yeah, sorry about that. Grayson, this is Ashley. Ashley, Grayson."
Grayson nods politely. "Nice to meet you," she says.
