Page 84 of Knocked Up by My Fake Fiancé
Oh. My. God.
Grayson's father walking in after we've just finished having sex is basically the second-worst thing that could have happened right now. The only thing worse would've been him walking in during the act—while Grayson had me bent over and screaming—or maybe right after, when my shirt was still off and my bra askew.
Okay, this is at least a little better than those options.
But not by much.
The air still reeks of sex. The take-out is still on the floor, leaking across the herringbone-patterned walnut, and Grayson's paperwork—along with everything else that had been on his desk—is scattered everywhere.
Anyone with half a brain could tell exactly what we were doing in here. Heat floods my face. I want the ground to open up and swallow me whole. I haven't felt this mortified since the summer my mom and dad caught me in bed with that football player.
"Um…" I clear my throat as I get to my feet—legs still shaky from two very real, very powerful orgasms. "Mr. Wolfe?—"
"Dad," Grayson interrupts, stepping in front of me as though to shield me from his father's scorn. "What do you want?"
"I came to talk to you. Your secretary said you were busy, but I had no idea she meant you were busy doing… this." His gaze sweeps the room, taking in the chaos, then flicks to me before settling back on his son.
"Well, to be fair, I was working before I was interrupted."
"Your fiancée shouldn't interrupt your work."
"Actually, it was George's fiancée who interrupted my work. Mine came to the rescue, if anything."
That gives him pause. "Marina? She was here?"
"Yeah."
"Why?"
"You'd have to ask her. She didn't get enough time to say what she wanted before Jenna came charging in like the cavalry to save the day."
His father exhales, and for the first time I notice the faint weariness in his face, like he's tired of managing his sons' complicated love lives. For a split second, I almost feel sorry for him—then I remember just how much of this mess is his and his meddling wife's fault.
"You should get back to work," he says, backing out and closing the door behind him.
Grayson turns to me. "That went better than I thought," he says, sounding almost pleasantly surprised.
"Are you serious?" I smack his back before covering my face. "How humiliating. Why didn't you lock the door?"
He lifts an eyebrow. "Excuse me, ma'am? You're the one who barged into my office and pounced on me like a wildcat, ravishing me and robbing me of my innocence. Any door-locking duties were clearly yours."
Damn it. That's almost funny enough to make me forget how mortified I am. Almost.
"I guess I should go back to work too," I mumble, though I don't really want to leave. It's weird—over the past few days I've actually started to enjoy his company, even outside of the sex. He's smart, and occasionally—like now—he can even be witty and unexpectedly thoughtful. Taken as a whole, he's turning out to be better company than I ever gave him credit for, even if he is annoying as hell sometimes.
"I guess you should," he says, but he doesn't sound thrilled about it either.
Still, I pick myself up and walk to the door.
"Bye," I say.
"Bye," he answers softly.
"Okay, we're here," I say as we turn left into the cul-de-sac.
It's been a two-hour drive from Grayson's place to my parents' home in Wappingers Falls, a sleepy Hudson Valley town where the biggest excitement is the Sunday flea market. As Grayson pulls into their driveway, I take a long, deep breath.
Here goes.
