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“Very well then. Gentlemen, I think we have everything we need. Michael, please stay behind and continue to hash over the details with them. I want the story out by tomorrow.”
I watch in horror as they finish stuffing their briefcases and head out the door, waving or nodding their ‘Bye’s and ‘Good day’s when they leave.
Tanner faces me and forces me to meet his eyes.
We stare at each other in silence, not sure what to say or what to do.
What in the hell do you say to your enemy-now-pretend-fiancé?
I don’t have much experience in the matter, and, I believe, neither does he.
The air in the room thickens, and sweat develops at my hair line. I squirm, feeling more uncomfortable than I did with the directors in the room.
Michael breaks the awkward, tension-filled silence and starts to fill in the gaps of our new arrangement.
Although I might not like what he’s saying, I silently thank him for his distraction. If not for him, I’m not sure what would happen between Tanner and me right now.
The way he’s looking at me—how he’s making me feel—has me confusing my hatred for desire.
There’s no denying that we’re attracted to each other, but the way he draws me to him unnerves me.
It’s something beyond natural or understandable. And, believe me, I’ve tried many times to figure how and why he has this effect over me.
There’s no logical reason.
I shake him off and focus on avoiding his passing glances and his annoying comments. I know I should be listening to Michael, but my attention is everywhere else. In my head, I force myself to repeat a new mantra: Tanner is the enemy.
Albeit a sexy, very sexy enemy.
And I have to shove any of this bubbly, mind-fucking nonsense down before it becomes a much bigger problem.
Once Michael finishes explaining everything, we all begrudgingly agree on how best to go forward with our fake engagement.
“Well, let’s get this over with,” I say, standing up.
I fix my dress and move my hair over to one shoulder. The temperature in the room is now scorching, making me wet everywhere.
“Until next time, Mrs. Sharpe,” he says, shooting a wink at me.
Shit. We’re definitely not in Kansas—or my New York—anymore.
Chapter 4
Tanner
My life, my livelihood is in her pretty little manicured hands.
Fuck. I hate not being in control. And she knows it, too.
As we exit the board room, I grab Elsa’s arm. I pull her into my office before she slips out of my fingers into the elevator. It’s almost fucking funny—she might hold all the control here, but I can still pull her around like she weighs nothing.
And it’s not like she comes willingly, either—I feel the way she tries to dig in those sharp little heels on her Louboutins as I drag her along.
I close the door to the nosy onlookers in the hall as I hear Elsa swear behind me.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” she hisses.
She’s always so fucking beautiful when she’s pissed.
