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“Yeah,” I say. “Let’s watch your show instead.”
Bethany’s show is about people in arranged marriages trying to survive each other. It’s objectively worse and also subjectively better, but at least it’s a distraction from wedding dresses and forevers.
Because I’m definitely not thinking about what I’d wear if I married Warren.
Never crossed my mind. Not even a little tiny bit.
But if I ever did? The dress would be amazing.
Chapter Twenty-Three
I’m actually kind of bummed when Bethany’s mom picks her up. Not only does Bethany think I’m cool—which I will definitely be rubbing in Miller’s face later—she likes the same reality shows that I do. And that one she introduced me to was highly entertaining. And even better? There’s six seasons for me to binge.
However, the bummer wears off pretty fast when I realize that the teen being out of the mansion means that Warren and I are now alone.
Or sort of. There’s always someone on staff coming or going. Plus the meddlesome cat and dog. And the chipmunk.
Fine, the chipmunk was a stretch, he’s outside.
But otherwise?
Otherwise, we are completely and totally alone.
Which I suppose doesn’t really matter since we’ve just spent the past week pretending that we haven’t seen each other naked.
In fact, I suspect Warren may have actually forgotten that he’s seen me naked. And had sex with me.
Really good sex. Really, really good sex. Like, if I got to vote about sex, I’d definitely vote for having sex with him again.
At least it was for me. But… maybe it was super average for him? Maybe it was below average?
Totes fine.
Except no. No, it’s not fine. Not at all fine! I actually got to have sex with a guy I fantasized about having sex with—great sex, thank you very much—and he’s just indifferent to my totally-above-average sex skills?
What an assho—
“Hey.” Warren interrupts me mid-rant. Thankfully it was a mental rant, but still.
“Hey,” I return, like the sparkling conversationalist that I am. I promptly forget that I’m mad at him and take in his outfit. Jeans. An old t-shirt. I wonder if he’s heading over to my place to work on my plumbing. I wonder if I can interest him in playing dirty plumber instead? Like I could run over there and open the door wearing nothing but a bra and panties and then make some kind of plumber innuendo? Something like, ‘Hey there, are you here to address my pipe dreams?’
Ugh. Gross. Even my inner sex goddess sucks at flirting.
“Why are you blushing?” Warren asks, a small frown marring his forehead.
“Absolutely no reason.” I shake my head in denial. “I’m not.”
“Okay, well”—his gaze drops to my hand—“are you busy right now?”
“Err, no,” I reply, returning the can of salt-free mixed nuts to the kitchen cabinet. “What’s up?”
This is it. He definitely wants to have sex again. I totally predicted it and shaved my legs this morning. All by myself. Didn’t even have to call a psychic to figure this one out. Honestly? I wonder if I should get into reading tarot cards or something. I’m basically a natural.
I’m feeling unbearably smug until Warren says, “There’s an estate sale in Schenectady.”
Oh.
Well.
Estate sales do kinda turn me on. So practically the same? They’re definitely very nearly the same as sex. A total crapshoot. Never sure what you’re gonna get. You might get a mildly satisfying orgasm or you might get the Olympic gold of all orgasms. When an estate sale pays off, it pays off. People sell off gold mines as part of their estates. Sometimes they even sell literal gold. You can find every designer under the sun at the right estate sale. And I have been running low on old dresses. There’s no question about it. I need to go to this sale.
Assuming Warren knows what he’s talking about.
“Are you sure?” I look at him suspiciously. “Because I know about every estate sale in a hundred-mile radius, and I’m not aware of any happening today. Not any good ones, anyway.”
“This one is very hush-hush,” Warren assures me, a slow smile sneaking across his face.
“Okay, well…” I shrug, trying not to let on how hot and bothered I am by the mere idea of treasure-hunting. “I guess I should check it out then.”
“Great. We’ll leave in ten minutes.”
Wait, we? “You… want to go with me?”
“It’s a very exclusive sale,” Warren says, but his tone is totally deadpan so I’m not sure if he’s teasing me or not. “I’m going to have to get you in. Unless”—he mimics my nonchalant shrug—“you don’t want to go with me.”
“Warren.” I stare at him, summoning all the seriousness I can. “I don’t think you know what you’re getting yourself into.”
“Oh”—he holds my gaze for a long moment—“I think I do.”
I’m sixty-three percent sure we’re still talking about estate sales.
“Fine,” I agree, drawing the word out slowly. My ex would have stabbed himself with a used fork before setting foot in an estate sale. He said they smelled and, worse, that he hated old things. If my fake boyfriend wants to estate it up with me, who am I to deny him? Besides, an extra pair of hands at an estate sale is the key to success. Even if he grabs total crap, I can put it back before we check out. Hell, even if all he does is hold my loot, it’ll keep my hands free for shopping.
