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Her followers wanted to communicate with her; they wanted whatever amount of attention she was willing to give them. When they bought something she endorsed, they returned to her account and told her. Even the assholes who had smart remarks were watching, and they were jealous, and their snideness reflected that.
Jovana wasn’t just a face.
She was selling. She was making a difference.
And she fucking rocked at what she did.
Just like me when it came to my job.
“I would hope she knows what she’s doing,” I said to Holden. “It’s her job.” Every word bit my tongue as it came out.
I didn’t know why.
Or why I found it so difficult to talk about her when it was easy as fuck to think about her.
But I wouldn’t be thinking about her if I hadn’t fingered her last night.
If I hadn’t let my dick lead me instead of my goddamn brain.
I still didn’t have an answer to my proposition, if she could handle a year of fucking without developing any feelings.
If she could, then this was going to be a tolerable twelve months.
If she couldn’t, I’d have to go the whole year without touching her.
Without kissing her.
Without fucking her.
And I knew, without question, that I’d lose it.
That seeing her prance around my condo, smelling her in the air, making out with her in public, would be a tease that would send me right over the goddamn edge.
I brought the vodka up to my mouth and swallowed. Instead of a bite, there was a burn, and it continued as I drained the rest of the glass.
The room was quiet, all eyes were on me, and when I set the empty glass down, Easton leaned forward, his arms resting on the edge of my desk.
“Are you really going to tell me that you feel absolutely nothing for her?” he asked.
I mashed my lips together while images of last night filled my head again.
Or maybe they’d never left.
Shit, I didn’t know.
But what I did know was that one of the only things I could think about while I was on the couch in her living room was how fast I could get my hand up her dress. When I’d volunteered to put a good word in for her friend, I knew it would score me points in the nice category—a category where I needed all the help I could get. And while I walked around her bedroom, I found myself soaking in the details, learning things we hadn’t yet talked about, like her interest in reading romance, based on the books that were on her nightstand. How her closet, which had no door, was full of bright colors when her bedroom had only the hues of white and beige. How the pieces of art on her walls were photographs, printed in black and white, of different places around Boston. But they weren’t the ones you’d expect, like the Tobin Bridge or the Prudential Building or TD Garden. These were of tiny pockets around the city—the long strip of water in front of the Christian Science Plaza, the bridge across the pond at the Public Garden, the Paul Revere House nestled on Hanover Street within the North End.
What was ironic as hell was that I had similar photos in my home office, shots I’d taken with my phone and had framed. I was no photographer, but I enjoyed capturing a beautiful picture, and the ones I loved the most, I hung.
So, we both liked art.
Did that mean I felt something?
I was so disconnected from my feelings when it came to women, I didn’t think I’d be able to distinguish a single emotion even if it were pounding against my heart.
All I knew was that at the end of the twelve months, I was walking, and that being in a fake marriage was the last fucking thing in this world that I wanted.
I looked at my best friend and replied, “I’m angry that I’m in this situation. That’s what I feel right now.”
