Page 36 of Weddings, Revenge & Fake Dating

“This might be a job for your lawyers.” I hesitate. “I’d like to renegotiate our life-coaching-business contract.”

His gaze brightens. “Reconsidering fake dating with benefits?”

“Not exactly.” I laugh nervously.

He folds his arms and shifts his weight. “They’re listening.”

“The thing is . . .” I pass him to pace the room. “Sophia and Roman think we’re here together, which means, technically, we should be cohabitating. And since they’re on the same floor . . .” I press a finger to my forehead, though it won’t help my forming headache.

It’s one thing to play at dating, but it’s another to ask for a higher level of commitment—sans benefits, of course. It could send Nathan running in the other direction. That’s an issue because I need him. He’s doing his job spectacularly well. My vagina would argue too well.

I peek at him from under my lashes, trying to figure out how to frame my request.

Nathan appears shocked. “Are you asking me to move in with you?”

“Would Human Resources object?”

My hands twist nervously at my stomach. Us together in one room is dangerous territory. It’s clear he would seduce me if I let him, and with the way he makes me feel . . . every moment I spend with him is a risk. He’s a catch-22.

Nathan paces the room like he’s considering his options.

I take a deep breath and remind myself what this is. It’s simply a business transaction. With some eye candy . . . and occasional petting . . . in public.

Our hot moment after the volleyball game was a fluke. A mistake. A spillover of adrenaline, nothing more. It was nothing more. If I repeat it enough, maybe it will become true.

Nathan picks up a Halloween-style unicorn mask and slips it over his face. Now, a unicorn with the body of a thirty-year-old stripper stares back at me.

“Neigh, neigh,” he says, responding to my offer in a horsey voice.

“No?” My hope falls.

“Let me translate. In unicorn-speak, that means no, Human Resources would not object.” He flips his rainbow mane.

“Labia thread lift? A face-slapping treatment? Bull semen or bird-poop facials?” I read a small portion of the resort’s swanky spa menu out loud.

Beside me, the bridesmaids snicker. They sit wearing fluffy white robes, sipping champagne while their feet soak in bubbling pedicure tubs. Nail technicians sit before us, organizing tools to reshape and paint toenails.

“It does not say bird-poop facials.” Sophia snatches the paper. In an elegant voice, she reads aloud. “The Good Luck Facial is infused with powdered peacock droppings to create the most unique beauty experience in the world. When this ancient remedy is applied, the micro-burning reduces fine lines and brightens skin, leaving your complexion rejuvenated.”

“I’m totally doing the fish pedicure,” Elsie says.

“Turning my feet into an all-you-can-eat toe-cheese buffet for starved fish does not excite me. Ew.” Mia shivers.

“Whatever happened to asshole bleaching? That’s not even on the list.” Disbelieving, Amelia flips the menu from front to back.

“I think going natural down there is the new trend,” Iris says, but Kayla and Lexi shake their heads.

“What kind of degree do you need to get the job to harvest the ingredients for a bull-semen facial?” Ruby asks.

“I’ll bet it pays really well,” Talia says as if she’d consider it.

“Yeah, but your coworkers are real dicks.” Amelia waggles her brows.

The group collectively groans.

“Someone order Amelia the face-slapping treatment,” June says.

“Allow me.”