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Oh God, those eyes.
Who knew brown could look so hot?
The kicker, though, was when he walked into my bedroom last night without a shirt on.
It was the first time I’ve seen him shirtless.
I almost died.
Breath actually stopped making its way into my lungs.
Someone needs to stop him working out for the next year and start feeding him a lot of fucking sugar and fat.
Jameson has abs of sin.
Or maybe it’s abs made for sin.
Either way, he has abs—holy hell, does he have abs—and they make me think of very sinful things.
I didn’t even chance letting my eyes drift down to the V I know for sure he has. No man has the kind of abs he does without having that V, and it would be my absolute downfall if I even glanced at it. That, I am more than certain of.
Jameson is six foot four of trouble.
The kind of trouble that could pull me under if I allow it to.
It’s because of all this, and that kiss he caught me by surprise with yesterday, that I’m in the hateful mood I’m in today. Also, the fact he forced me to sleep in the same bed as him last night.
I’m convinced the only reason I actually got any sleep last night was because I crashed after the three-month build up to yesterday. I’m unsure how I made it through those months pretending to love a man I despise. Last night, my mind was so exhausted by the effort that it finally allowed me to sleep for a solid five hours. If not for that, I doubt I would have slept at all. Not with Jameson lying so damn close to me.
I told him this morning would go a lot more smoothly if we slept apart. He didn’t listen to me. As predicted, I woke highly annoyed. And since he’s been his usual bossy, demanding self from the minute he spotted me in the kitchen this morning, I haven’t been able to let go of that annoyance.
“We leave in fifteen minutes,” he says overbearingly, striding into my dressing room where I’m packing my suitcase.
I straighten, glaring at him and his arrogance. I know we leave in fifteen minutes. There’s no need for him to come in here and tell me this like I require the reminder. Also, I don’t appreciate him intruding on my privacy. The small amount I now have. “You do know this ismydressing room now, right?”
He doesn’t respond straight away. He just stands there in all his suit glory—goddamn, the man can wear a suit—and gives me that bored look of his that I hate almost as much as I hate him. Finally, he says, “I’ll be waiting in the foyer. Don’t take your time.”
“Jameson,” I say as he exits the dressing room.
He looks back at me, waiting for whatever I have to say.
“Don’t come in here again.”
“Don’t make it so I need to.” With that, he turns and leaves before I have a chance to process the assholeness of what he just said.
Usually, I’m fast with my processing and never miss the chance to get my thoughts across to people, but Jameson has a way of catching me unawares and a way of screwing with my thoughts.
The last three months have been filled with these kinds of interactions. From the minute he proposed this fake marriage to me, he’s been messing with my ability to respond to bullshit. I don’t know what it is or how he does it, but I seriously need to work on my game.
Determined to do that, I finish with my suitcase and head out to the foyer in plenty of time to meet his deadline. My best friend texts me as I deposit my suitcase near the elevator for his driver to collect, and since Jameson isn’t here yet, I reply to her message.
Natalie: What time are you leaving today?
Me: MA’s schedule says in six minutes.
Natalie: Oh Jesus, MA and his schedules. 364 more nights, babe. You’ve got this.
Me: I really fucking do, but MA’s balls may not survive all of those 364 nights if he continues on with his assholey ways.
