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“I gotta go,” he says, tossing cash onto the bar. “I promised Hanna I’d stop by tonight and do a shift with my baby niece, Eloise, so she can get some sleep even though Easton’s on a trip.”
I reach for my purse, and he waves me off. “I’ve got this.”
I don’t protest. Even if this setup benefits me as much as him, it was his idea—and plus, if we were really together, I’d probably be letting him pay for me, given the disparity in our current incomes and the fact that we’re—as far as the world knows—about to merge finances.
He stands up, and I’m struck again by the way his torso tapers from broad shoulders to trim waist, the power hinted at by the play of muscles under his expensive clothes. “We can pick this up again soon and fill in the blanks. And we’re gonna need to out ourselves on social media. I’m thinking we should get something up soon, something that looks like we didn’t mean for it to get out there.”
“Like what?” I ask.
“Video of me leaving your house would probably do it,” he says. “And then I can have someone ‘accidentally’ leak it to this paparazzo who owes me a favor. That way we can control the timing.”
“I could get my sister to film that,” I say. “Since she already knows the whole scoop.”
“That would work.”
“How about tomorrow morning at nine. Like you’re sneaking out?”
He gives me an eyebrow raise. “And I don’t even get to sleep in your bed for my trouble?”
I blush and, to cover my confusion, text my sister.
Ivy: Want to meet Shane Hott?
Nia: Where? When?
Ivy: Tomorrow at nine. My place.
Nia: With bells on, sister.
I turn back to find Shane watching me, his expression inscrutable.
“We’re on,” I tell him. “Tomorrow, nine, my place. I’ll text you the address.”
He nods.
“Uh,” I say. “I guess we have to—what? Hug? Something?”
“Works for me,” he says, and suddenly, before I can brace myself properly, I’m wrapped in muscular arms and pressed against a strong, lean body.
Whoa.
He kisses my hair and releases me.
“Bye, babe,” he says.
He strides toward the elevator, leaving behind the scent of expensive aftershave and me—a limp, noodly, tingly puddle of holy shit what just happened to me.
10
Ivy
When we converge on my house the next morning, Nia plays it way more cool than I was expecting her to. She barely fangirls at all. She just shakes Shane’s hand, smiles at him, and then listens to his instructions about where to stand—the bushes—and how to film us—“Like you’re trying really hard not to be seen. It has to be that way to be believable,” he explains.
“You stand just inside the door,” he tells me, pointing. “With the door open.”
We set up like we’re saying goodbye as he leaves.
“Come close,” he says.
