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“Not the rebound part,” I quickly add, my gaze drifting back to his long enough to see a flicker of surprise.
I think I’ve shocked him into silence, and I feel a surge of anger rising within me. “You invited me to join you on the rooftop terrace.”
“You’re the one who wandered up there in a bathrobe, carrying champagne.”
“Well, it was you who followed me back to my room.”
“I was being a gentleman.” He scoffs, then skips my turn of our little tête-à-tête. “And if my memory serves correctly, it was you who opened the door back up and called after me.” A smirk tugs at the corner of his lips.
“You didn’t have to come in,” I retort, crossing my arms defensively.
“You actually started this whole thing when you dropped your panties the second you saw me.” He raises his brows, and I feel my cheeks flush with embarrassment. Because out of context or not… he’s not wrong.
“Okay, fine. You win.”
“It’s not a contest, Sunny.”
“You know what, never mind,” I snap, sliding my chair back, scraping it noisily on the wooden floor.
I can tell that this is a lost cause, and while he may have given me the best sex of my life, I need to pack up my bag and what’s left of my dignity and head home with my tail between my legs to figure out how to fix this mess.
“Wait, I came to apologize. Please, where are you going?” Beau’s voice stops me, and I turn to face him, feeling a mix of frustration and resignation.
“Home. Where do you think?” I reply, my voice tinged with bitterness.
“Where is home exactly?” he asks, his curiosity piqued.
“Magnolia Grove, Alabama,” I answer with a sigh, just imagining the scandal this will create back home. Then again, small towns usually have the biggest gossip.
“I’m sorry, but please sit. I want to talk.” He looks genuine and by the way his hand won’t stay out of his hair, I’m guessing a little nervous too.
“Isn’t that what we’ve been doing, Beau?” I’m still getting used to the way his name feels on my lips.
“It’s more like sparring. But what can I say, you seem to bring out the best in me.”
“I would hate to see your worst.”
“Touché, but what if I told you that I have a way we can still do the article and both get what we want?”
I sit back down, trying not to let my eagerness show, my hands twisting in my lap. “I’m listening.”
“Look, I know the circumstances of how we, uh, met were a little…”
“Shocking, unexpected, scandalous, duplicitous…” I offer up a few options for the tongue-tied writer. Scratch that—editor-in-chief.
“Yeah, one of those. What you said before? Did you mean it?”
“Which part? I’m not following.”
“When you said, ‘unless you’re volunteering for the job.’”
“It’s called sarcasm.” I take another sip of the mimosa he bought me.
“But what if I did? Pretend to be your fiancé.”
“I would think that maybe you’re even more desperate than I am.”
“If we did this, could we still do the article?” His unwavering gaze searches mine for answers.
