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A big ass smile is working its way across my face as I pull up my calendar. “Works for me.”
“By the way, I want to make something crystal clear.” His tone is serious again. “This is not an exchange of sex for business favors. We don’t have to have sex if you don’t want to—I haven’t brought it up for a reason. Hell, we don’t even need to do this fake relationship thing. You’re welcome to come up to the farm anytime to pitch Lady Luck. Seriously, just tell me to fuck off—”
“I’m going to stop you right there. You’re right. This is absolutely not that kind of exchange. This is two consenting people helping each other out and possibly having a good time doing it. You hopefully make your family happy, and I hopefully land a spot on a new menu. If sex happens along the way? Great. And because we have really great sex together, I want to have a lot of it when I see you. Like, a lot. I’ve hit a bit of a dry patch, so . . .”
“Fuck,” he says.
“What?”
“You just gave me a chubby.”
My smile hurts. “I want a dozen orgasms. At least.”
“Done. At least a dozen orgasms, courtesy of a famous football player.”
“You’re famous?”
“Oral in the shower,” he continues crisply. “The best food and wine the South has to offer. The best accommodations on the farm. More oral and orgasms. Iced almond milk lattes every morning and whiskey by the fire every evening. Did I mention I’d be eating your pussy every chance I get?”
Heat, heady and delicious, settles between my legs and in my cheeks. I put a hand on my forehead and lower my head, lest my employees catch a glimpse of me all hot and bothered.
I love what a dirty talker Hank can be.
Not gonna lie. This whole fake relationship thing might turn out to be a lot of fun.
“How long would you need me? And when?”
“Party is February thirteenth. So, that weekend? Friday through Sunday?”
“Valentine’s Day weekend, huh?”
“My brother and his fiancée are romantics. What can I say? Plus, it gives us a good explanation as to why we’re getting together.”
“Because we want to celebrate the day of love together.”
“Exactly.”
Lifting my head, I pull up my calendar and quickly scan what I’ve got going on. Luckily I keep my weekends open as a rule, so I’m free.
“That Monday is a holiday,” I say. “Would you like me to stay then too?”
“We have an extra day to bone? I mean bond? Like the grossly in love couple we’ll pretend to be? Uh, yeah, I’d like you to stay.”
I tuck my phone between my ear and shoulder and enter the dates on my calendar. “Will we be just in love, or are we engaged, or did we have a shotgun wedding in Vegas . . .?”
“Meh. In plain old love sound good to you?”
“Not the real thing, no. But the Bridgerton version, sure. Besides, I have exactly zero interest in getting married again, pretend or otherwise.”
“Should I ask what you mean by that?”
“Nope.”
“All right.” I hear him take a breath. “Is that a yes?”
I shake my head again, even though I’ve already blocked off the weekend. I do feel for Hank; unrequited love is not a fun place to be. I haven’t asked him if he’s over Emma, but does it really matter? My heart’s been closed for business since Dan and I split, so I’m not worried about catching feelings other than arousal and appreciation for Hank. Now it’s just a matter of getting my ducks in a row before the time away. Speaking of—I need to draft an email to Ria with details on everything I’ll need for the tasting.
Really, I have nothing to lose here.
“I believe it is.”
“Great. I’ll get a jet lined up. And if you’re cool sharing your address—totally cool if not too—I’ll send a car to pick you up and take you to the airport.”
“A jet?” I ask, pulse skipping.
“You’re with me, so you fly private.”
“I’m fine flying the normal, non-famous way.”
“I’m not. Private jet. Got it?”
“Your snobbery is insufferable.”
“Is this role play thing already turning you on? Because I’ve got a full-on woody now.”
I shake my head and sigh. “You and your rakish ways. I’ll see you in two weeks.”
“Ten days, madam. It’s only ten days.”
Chapter Eight
Stevie
“You’d better snap a pic and Instagram that shit. If your private jet isn’t on your feed, did the flight even happen?”
Settling into my comfy seat, I accept a glass of champagne and a tray of artfully arranged fruit from the flight attendant. “Maybe I’ll get a picture of my beers on board. Could be good for Lady Luck’s feed?”
“Yes!” Kate gasps. “And the hashtag could be high roller! I love it.”
“Hashtag FancyAF.”
“Hashtag, I can’t believe you’re really doing this.”
