“Right. Of course it is.” She chewed her bottom lip, eyes darting around again. “Okay, what about a rollaway bed? Hotels have those, right? They could bring one up—”
“Frankie.”
“Or I could sleep on the floor. I’ve done it before. Camping. Well, not actual camping, but I slept on an air mattress once at my cousin’s house and honestly it wasn’t that different from—”
“Frankie.” I stepped closer, watching the pulse hammer at the base of her throat.
“I’m just saying, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. This whole weekend... and I... and there’s only one bed, Max. One. That’s not a lot of beds. In fact, it’s the minimum number of beds, and we’re two people, so mathematically—”
“Are you done?”
She swallowed hard. “Maybe?”
I closed the distance between us, my hands settling on her shoulders. “There are no rollaways. There are no other rooms. And neither of us are sleeping on the floor.” I leaned down, my face inches from hers. “We share the bed. Unless you’re afraid you won’t be able to keep your hands off me.”
“What? I’m, I’m not afraid of that,” she shot back, lifting that cute little chin.
“Really?” I decided I’d teased her enough. I let my hands slide down her arms before stepping back. “Then let’s go. We’ve got family to annoy.”
CHAPTER THREE
Frankie
The Welcome Challenge was exactly the kind of rich-people nonsense I expected.
Apparently, nothing said everlasting love quite like forcing your wedding guests to hike through the woods competing for prizes like caffeinated raccoons.
By the time we made it to the trailhead, my stomach had tied itself into enough knots to qualify for a Boy Scout badge.
The mountain air was grounding, smelling of pine and wet dirt, but it didn’t do a damn thing for my nerves. I was currently pretending to be the girlfriend of the hottest man in Montana while meeting his terrifying wealthy family for the first time.
“This is fine,” I muttered as we approached the wedding party. “People fake-dated emotionally unavailable mountain billionaires every day.”
“You talking to yourself again?” Max looked entirely too comfortable in his own skin as he walked beside me.
“Absolutely not.”
“You do realize I can hear you, right?”
“Then stop eavesdropping on my emotional breakdown.”
The corner of his mouth made that tiny, devastating twitch.
Damn it, but I wanted to kiss that teasing look right off his face. It didn’t help that my inner bad girl provided images that it shouldn’t have.
Pushing him behind a giant pine tree… wrapping my chubby legs around his waist and…
When we arrived, the trailhead was crawling with people dressed in outdoor gear that looked suspiciously untouched by actual nature.
I spotted the Barbie Brigade immediately. A cluster of bridesmaids who all looked like they existed on celery and spit. They were thin, polished, and wearing matching pink outfits.
I looked down at my jeans — the ones that actually made my ass look good — and the emerald green blouse that suddenly felt very… budget-bin. Which, it was.
One of the women turned our way and began whispering to the girl next to her.
Oh, good. We were doing Mean Girls, Mountain Edition.
I felt a familiar prickle of curvy angst, that old voice telling me I was too loud, too big, too much. But then I remembered I was standing next to Max Wilder pretending to be his fake wedding date.
