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I want to laugh—and digress—at his seeming knowledge of romance novels, but I suspect that he has zero sense of humor right now. Or maybe ever.

“Yeah, sounds about right for an ex, especially when she shows up waving her newfound love in your face. Though that guy looked like a pale-faced, wimpy substitute for a rugged cowboy dude like you. Just saying.”

“He’s a contractor,” he says, as though this explains everything.

Luke makes a sound that almost sounds like a laugh, but the hard lines of his face don’t budge, and he definitely doesn’t smile. I get the sense he may be incapable of that. Not that the chiseled jaw, angular cheekbones, and smoldering eyes need help in making him hot as sin.

He shrugs, his big shoulders rising and falling like twin mountains. I can’t help watching his large muscles move beneath his shirt like some porn show I never knew I needed. While I’m at it, I take in the way his shirt grazes his pecs and biceps, barely holding its own against muscles that threaten to tear it from his body if I don’t do it first.

Watching his lips move is equally distracting, so I look at the ground. Finally, I can make some sense of his words. He’s apologizing, but even that makes no sense.

“I don’t know what to say. I’m so, so sorry I dragged you into a lie in front of my lawyer.”

“That was your lawyer?” I ask, surprised, even though I guess I shouldn’t be, given that we’re in front of a courthouse.

“Yeah. Who’d you think it was?”

I shrug. “I dunno. Maybe your wingman or some dude who was supposed to find you a fake girlfriend for the day, only he’s really bad at his job?”

He huffs another one of those breaths that almost sounds like a laugh but isn’t. “You got the second part right.”

Pacing in a circle on the sidewalk, he shakes his head. I notice that the doors to the courthouse are open now, so I should probably go in and face the traffic judge, but I’m a little afraid to leave this man alone, given how distraught he seems, raking a hand through his hair. I can’t help but notice that with each swipe, it gets more tousled, more like a surfer heading to the shore. So the more aggravated he gets, the hotter he looks.

Makes me want to rile him up.

Dark eyes flaming beneath a creased brow, sharp cheekbones, a clean shave that emphasizes his strong jaw even more. Denim shirt with a navy tie, khaki pants. Dark jacket folded over one arm. No wonder I up and kissed him.

It was pure impulse, fueled by all that sugar, and maybe a little spark of naughtiness when I saw his ex-wife walking toward us, looking like she purchased the universe one diamond at a time. And now that I know he’s battling her for custody of Scout, who I assume is his kid, I’m even more convinced it was the right decision.

Very good lips. Very good kiss, which he didn’t seem to mind one bit once we got started.

Very ripe for a social media post.

Take that, Glam Squad.

I should post a picture of me with this rugged, muscular cowboy for everyone at my old job to see. To prove that what they think they know about me and the lame ex from the Real Housewives wasn’t even a thing.

But that would be petty. And probably not the smartest thing if I want to get another job. And also, the last thing I need is to run around pretending to be this guy’s girlfriend for whatever little domestic hijinks he’s trying to pull as though I need more drama in my life.

As though I’ve ever shied away from a dramatic adventure.

“I’m…a little out of sorts this morning,” he explains. “I have a custody hearing for my son, and my ex, who walked out on us when he was one, is here all repentant and reformed. And I’ve…fucked up lately…so she has a case.”

“So up until you fabricated a fiancée, what was your plan for defeating her?”

“My, um, lawyer is working on that. Arguing that she’s an unfit mother.”

“Well, sheesh, if that’s your best plan, you’re screwed. That woman is channeling Mary Poppins. Seems like you really need my help today.”

He nods, dazed. I see every bit of anguish in his tired eyes and lined forehead. I also see intensity in his dark eyes and sharp jaw, with a muscle jumping in his cheek.

This is not a guy who makes impulsive decisions. I know his type—tightly wound, short on words, long on inner agony he won’t talk about. Good in bed, generally. Then gone.

All fine by me.

This could work out all right for me. If all he needs is someone to stand up with him in court and pretend to be his girlfriend for fifteen minutes, maybe I can reap some rewards on the back end. Or my back end, if he’s into that.

“So what now? I come inside with you and tell your ex that we’re a thing, so the judge lets you keep your kid? I don’t know how this works.”