Page 55 of Lucky Puck

There would be no way to hide my healthy appetite—even if my plump-ish body didn’t give it away—while living with him for the next three to four weeks. Maybe even longer…

I quickly hush that whispered thought.

“I wish we ordered dessert,” he says, looking me up and down. Then his wolf-grin pops, and I’m a goner because it stimulates a Pavlovian response of excited hormones to race through me until it’s my panties that are a goner for real.

“I could make dessert if⁠—”

He raises his brows. “We can make dessert together, honeybuns.” His lids lower, but they don’t hide the startling blue blaze of his eyes, and they sear me until I know I’m cooked and simmering, ready to eat. Shit—I mean… hell.

I need to get through the night with my self-respect intact, and I’m not sure if it’s possible. Or maybe I’m no longer sure what I’m worried about. What’s the harm in a little… fooling around?

The harm is that he’s my client and… so what? I replay the argument I made to Martino about my interests being aligned with Brody’s and wonder if it counts if we become lovers?

Only until we’re not. But then again, we’re going to break up either way, right?

My mind encounters the prospects after the breakup like it’s a dangerous black hole, like venturing to the precipice to examine it will suck me into oblivion. So my mind’s eye turns away.

“Let’s clean up,” I say for something to do as I hop from the stool and start gathering plates.

“If you insist,” he says, following me to the dishwasher. Following me very closely. So close he’s touching me, and when I bend to put the plates inside, my butt rubs against him. Shit. Shit. Shit. I’m bumping up against a very strategic and very ambitiously energetic part of him. I jump to pull away, and he grabs onto my hips, pulling me back into him as I straighten.

“Brody…” My voice is embarrassingly breathy, not the kind of voice one uses to complain with any kind of sincerity.

“You feel good, Bianca,” he whispers close to my ear, and I shudder. “I think your ass is my favorite part of you. It’s world-class with its perfect shape and…” his fingers close in with a soft caressing squeeze. “It’s so fucking squeezable.”

“Brody,” I say more firmly this time.

He sighs and lets go of me, stepping back. He turns me to face him and holds me against him lightly, his fingers grazing the top of my butt innocently, though I feel them as if they’re electric prods tuned into my wavelength to incite my hormones into overdrive.

“Are you going to tell me you don’t want to be touched, Bianca? That you’re not attracted to me?”

“I…” I can hardly look at him, so I lower my eyes to his chest where my hands rest against his chest, the perfectly sculpted firm muscles, his heart beating hard underneath, and my palms itch to roam. Can I lie? I have a feeling it wouldn’t do any good if I did. In fact, I give myself a mental slap because I need to deal with the reality that I’m massively attracted to this man and that he may very possibly be attracted to me. To try and pretend otherwise is one pretense too many.

I look back up at him and realize he’s waiting patiently for my response, not prodding me, not annoyed. Maybe because he’s confident that I’m attracted and that I’ll come around to admitting it.

“Okay, I’m attracted to you. Happy?”

He laughs at my ungracious and very unsexy admission.

“It’s not a flaw, honeybuns.”

“No, but it’s dangerous.”

He sighs deeply. “You’re worried I’ll take advantage of you? Because you’re a serious relationship kind of woman?”

“No,” I shake my head violently even though he’s hit the nail on the head. But I feel foolish because when he said it out loud, it sounded foolish, like I’m a child and I need to grow up. After all, there’s no guarantee in any relationship, serious or otherwise, that it’s not going to end.

Am I really waiting for Mr. Right? The last time I ventured into a relationship impulsively—meaning just because I was attracted—didn’t work out very well. Understatement.

My heart, but my self-confidence, exploded into a million minuscule pieces, and I’ve been putting it back together bit by bit ever since. I’m not sure I’m strong enough to take another chance.

But if not now, when?

“No? Then what is it? Not the agent-client thing? Not at this stage, honeybuns.” He smiles softly, with understanding as his eyes penetrate me, and I let myself feel it.

“It’s complicated. I mean, I’m obviously attracted to you, but… I’m not comfortable… you know…” I cringe at my awkwardness, swearing at how obviously uncomfortable I am and wishing I weren’t, wishing I had the same confidence with him that I have with other people in the business, or I did before this fake marriage fiasco.

It should help that his expression is nothing short of understanding, and when he gently and slowly brushes a stray strand of hair from my face, I want to melt into a helpless puddle and tell him I’m his, that I’ll have his babies and—wait. What the heck, Bianca Brooks.