Page 36 of Knocked Up by My Fake Fiancé
God, that makes me feel worse—like such an asshole. Twice now, I've neglected to use a condom and made it her problem.
"We'll take care of it," I correct. "I'm sorry. I'm usually not so careless."
She shoots me a look, like she wasn't expecting it, then shrugs. "It's okay. I didn't stop you, and if I can't control myself, I should probably get back on the pill."
"You don't have to," I tell her. "This won't happen again."
"Isn't that what we said last time?"
"This time I mean it."
She raises an eyebrow but doesn't defy me.
"What makes you think I'd be doing it for you?" she asks.
My entire body hardens, and red tinges the corners of my vision.
"You won't." The growl bursts out from the depths of my soul. It surprises her.
"Why not?" she asks.
Yeah, my guy—why not?
"Because," I say, "my mother will almost certainly be hiring a PA to follow you around, and the last thing we need is for him to catch you hooking up with some blond gigolo in a bar."
Her eyes glitter with mischief. "I can be discreet."
Is she trying to drive me crazy? "The answer is no—absolutely not."
"Well, if I'm not allowed to have any fun, neither are you," she challenges.
"Fine."
She gapes. "Are you deadass?"
"Of course." It's not like I want any other woman right now anyway, and it should be no problem staying celibate for a few months.
Or at least I would have no problem staying celibate if not for the fact that the world's most tempting woman is moving into my very home with me. The issue is how on earth I'm going to keep my hands off her.
"So, we both don't sleep with other people. Deal?"
She turns away. "I guess that works for me, too. It's probably for the best. I'm going to be busy for the next few weeks anyway."
I nod as the elevator bell pings to tell us we've made it to the top and reached my private penthouse level. Thank goodness I have the entire floor. No neighbor standing waiting for the elevator back down could possibly have misunderstood what's just been happening.
I fish in my pocket for my keycard as the doors part with a hiss, spilling us into the private corridor that leads to my apartment. The contrast is brutal—bright light, the coolness of the AC, marble floors that throw our reflections back at us. Strategically placed pot plants line the simple, white wallsand hidden lighting. The world resumes its proper speed, yet everything still feels off-balance.
Jenna walks a few paces ahead, clutching her bag like armor. I keep my distance, not trusting my own composure. Her heels click a steady rhythm that sounds too loud in the hush. The scent of the elevator still clings to us, raw and human, and I half-expect the walls themselves to blush.
At the door, my hands fumble with the keycard. Ridiculous. I've opened this lock a thousand times without thinking, but now it feels like breaching a fortress. Maybe it is one. No one has ever crossed this threshold who mattered enough to remember.
When the lock finally beeps open, cool air sweeps out—filtered, perfect, impersonal. The penthouse smells of cedar and money. Jenna hesitates before stepping inside, scanning the vast space as if it might bite. I almost tell her it's just steel and glass, nothing more, but the words stick. Because to me it's more than that; it's control, order, proof that I can build something no one can destroy.
Her shoulder brushes mine as she passes, and the contact jolts through me like static. She doesn't notice. Or pretends not to. Either way, it's enough to remind me that bringing her here might be the most dangerous decision I've made in years.
My driver will bring up the shopping bags and Jenna's suitcases in the separate service elevator at the back of the building, accessible from the basement-level car lot.
"So," she says, her voice almost normal even though she looks anything but. "You said six months, right?"
