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“Okay, angel. I’ll let you think I believe you. See you tomorrow night.”
“What did I say about calling me ang—?”
And he’s already hung up. Perfect.
I don’t know which is worse: that stupid nickname being resurrected or the danger of starting a fake romance with Tanner.
That’s not true. It’s no contest.
I’m definitely taking a risk getting close to Tanner all over again, let alone pretending to be engaged to him. But I’m not about to let all of my hard work starting Dirty Little Angel and building it up to the success that it is just to let it fail because I don’t have the balls to go on a few dates with that jackass.
That sexy jackass.
A jackass with the velvety voice and magic hands.
I’m going to need a giant boost of confidence to stand up to his charms. And nothing gives me confidence like a good orgasm.
As I slip my hand under the water, I let myself imagine it’s not my hand stroking my pussy but a certain dark-haired, broad-shouldered, gray-eyed Adonis who could turn out to be my biggest weakness.
Chapter 6
Tanner
The clock chimes loudly behind me, indicating its half past the hour.
I feel sweat form at my brow, and I quickly wipe it away. Wringing my hands and my neck, I resort to my phone to distract myself, absent-mindedly scrolling through my emails and Twitter feed.
I’m nervous—I’m actually fucking nervous—and I have no idea why.
I swear, she is the only person that can make me this fucking anxious. She knows exactly how to rile me up in her peculiar and aggravating ways.
And it’s not like me to overanalyze, to get anxious, and to worry. But with her, my mind spirals out of control.
It makes no sense because I’ve dealt with bigger shit than this before.
Hell, that’s what every runway show and new collection is all about—pressure, nerves, anticipation—all wrapped up in one package. The success all dependent upon critics.
But tonight’s critic—Elsa—has found a way to get to me and under my skin like no one else has or can.
I sigh in exasperation and start pacing the length of the veranda, unable to stay still.
Anxiety seeps through me, and my inner watchdog comes out—I eye the door, the main entrance, and my watch in eagerness.
I fidget with the pink and white roses the restaurant drowned the balcony with, per my request. It eases me a bit, and I smile lazily, taking in the scene.
I’m not a romantic man. I don’t have a knack for hearts; I rarely buy flowers; and I usually run away from all things dealing with love.
It’s not something I’m used to or have g
rown up with.
But I’m a damn good designer, and I know gorgeous when I see it. And that’s exactly what this restaurant and this veranda is—fucking gorgeous.
In all honesty, it’s a breathtaking scene. It’s as if they’ve taken a page out of a Nicholas Sparks novel or some shit and brought it to life here.
Fortunately, I know people who can make me look like I’m romantic—it’s all included with the charm. Plus, it makes me feel a little bit better, knowing that I’m making it harder for her to run away.
That is, if she hasn’t already.
