Page 3 of Fake It For Him

“Something tells me you don’t need a scar for chicks to dig you.” She flashed me a small, amused smile, then giggled when she caught me staring at her so intently. “What?”

“Nothing. You’re beautiful, is all.”

She burst out laughing, doubling over, and she shook her head at me. “And you’re drunk.”

“I’m not that drunk anymore.” I leaned forward, wishing her head was still right in front of me instead of halfway to her lap as she laughed. “What can I do to thank you for showing mercy to a pathetic stranger on the street?”

The girl straightened up again and swiped her index fingers under her eyes as if she’d laughed so hard, she’d cried. Her fingernails were festively painted red, white, and green, with little Grinches on the nails of her ring fingers.

While I wondered what on earth would possess a person to have their nails done like that, she jerked her head toward the bar. “How about a cup of coffee?”

It wasn’t what I’d choose to drink, but I nodded again. “Coming right up.”

“I’ll have whipped cream on mine.”

I frowned as I got up, my brows climbing when I realized she was serious. “Whipped cream?”

“Yep.”

I laughed. “That’s more of a milkshake than a coffee, but okay. You’re the good Samaritan here, so whatever you want, you get.”

“Milkshake?” she echoed incredulously.

I strode toward the pocked, thick wooden bar and caught the attention of the bartender. I chuckled as I placed our order, but he didn’t seem surprised at all about the whipped cream. In fact, he immediately looked past me, saluted the girl, and then broke away from me to make our drinks. I turned and leaned against the counter while I waited, watching as she dropped the used medical supplies back into the bag and settled into the sofa, her eyes on the fire where the flames danced in the hearth.

This girl was fascinating, and after the night I’d had, I didn’t think it was possible for me to end it like this. On a positive note. One that would end with me in her bed—whether she knew it yet or not.

2

ELLA

Four Years Ago

Life was so damn weird sometimes. The last thing I’d expected when I’d headed out last night with some of the others who lived in the hostel was to end up back here, nursing a hot-as-hell, injured American who’d obviously been in some kind of fight.

I’d been around the block enough times to know what a guy looked like when he’d been punched, and this man, handsome as he was, had obviously pissed off the wrong Scotsman. Or someone, but probably a Scot, since he seemed to be traveling alone.

I sighed as I watched him come back to the sofa, carrying our coffees carefully so he wouldn’t add burned fingers to his list of injuries for the night. As he sat down, I was struck again by how good he smelled—freakishly good—and by how incredibly attractive he was.

His scent was masculine and expensive, spicy but not overly so. It also wasn’t overpowering, just a faint hint of leather, whiskey, and citrus. Although I was pretty sure the whiskey was from his pores and not his cologne.

I didn’t know why I thought the scent was expensive, but it might’ve been just because his clothes definitely were. A dark, tailored suit with a light blue shirt that fit like it’d been made for him. It was just a pity that his collar was so stained with blood that he was probably going to have to toss it out after tonight.

Once he was seated, he turned slowly and handed over my drink, and those mysterious, deep brown eyes latched on mine. “Where are you from?”

“Originally?” I asked before giving myself a mental slap. Of course, he means originally. What’s wrong with you?

I cleared my throat, my gaze dropping to the coffee in his hands. “I’m from New York. You?”

“Same. When are you heading home?”

I shrugged. “I’m not sure yet. How about you?”

“First thing in the morning.” When I looked up at him again, he gave an exaggerated shudder. “It can’t come soon enough.”

I eyed him for a long moment, looking him over from the top of that head full of luxurious, thick, dark brown hair to the cut on his cheek, wondering why he was so eager to leave. “I’m pretty sure it’s not Edinburgh’s fault that you got beat up.”

“No, it wasn’t, but I didn’t want to come here in the first place.”