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“Okay…” I reply, stepping back.
“Full transparency, always. I need to know I can trust you.”
“Of course. Same.”
“And we have to agree that this…is fabricated. None of it is real. We can’t… Especially like…that.”
When he gestures between us, I get the message loud and clear, but my eyes narrow at that last part—likethat. Something tells me Adam Goode isn’t used to being so dirty, but rather than push the issue, I nod. “Of course,” I say, repeating myself. “We don’t want things getting complicated.”
“Exactly.”
“But we obviously can’t be sleeping with other people at the same time, or it could ruin everything.” I cross my arms over my chest, still standing in front of him, mostly naked.
“Agreed,” he nods astutely. “Three months. If it’s not working, we let it go. Call it quits.” His air of confidence is infectious and a little disarming. For a man that struggled to touch my tits a moment ago, I find Adam’s introspective nature refreshing. I don’t meet a lot of men who can truly look me in the eye the way he does and listen to what I have to say without saying something condescending. That wild, unhinged night in my apartment aside, Adam truly is a gentleman—a secretly perverted gentleman.
“I can do three months.”
His eyes drift around my apartment for a moment before coming back to my face. “Do you need any help…since you lost your job?”
I can’t even keep my eyes from rolling at that not-so-subtle dig. “Don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself. I’ve been doing it since I was seventeen.”
His pure-brown eyes stay on my face for a moment too long, almost as if he doesn’t believe me. So I snatch the dress off the floor and march to my room. After hanging the black dress on the hanger, I pull on a T-shirt and jeans before walking back out to the living room.
Adam is holding Roscoe in his arms, petting his head as they both look out the large window in my living room. Illuminated by the afternoon light, I take a moment to admire him. With his dark hair and trimmed beard, he seems almost too perfect. But everything about Adam seems perfect, and I can’t help but wonder if there’s something imperfect that he’s hiding.
And I find myself wishing I could be the one he allows to see those imperfections.
Thirteen
Adam
It’s been three weeks since the start of this little plan, and every single day since she brought it up, I’ve been tempted to cancel. Every time I sit down at my desk to get some writing done or make a goal for my mysterious and bleak-looking future, I get caught up in this scheme we hatched like a couple of revenge-hungry high schoolers. Nearly every day, I’ve typed up a message to Sage to cancel. I’m a grown man, for fuck’s sake. I don’t need to bepretendinganything, let alone pretending to date a woman, just to piss off my dad.
And yet, here I am.
I park my Audi outside the Laundromat and pull out my phone to text Sage. I only get two words in when the front door opens and she strides out.
Holy fucking shit.
That dress—and I use that term loosely—looks ten times better than it did in her apartment three weeks ago. Her pink hair is in curly waves over one shoulder and her exposed skin is shimmering like she’s wearing some sort of thin layer of glitter.
Scrambling like an idiot, I jump out of the car and rush around the back to open her door, but she’s already climbing in by the time I get there.
“What are you doing?” She laughs. Her lips are dark, the shade of Merlot. And her eyes pop even more than they usually do with thick fan-like lashes and silver shimmery eyeshadow over her lids.
“I was being a gentleman,” I reply with my hands out.
She waves me away as she pulls the door closed. On my way back to the driver’s side, I have to adjust my thickening cock in my pants. This effect Sage has on me is just annoying at this point. I’m not doing any of this to get closer to her or to get laid. It’s not about her and me. It’s about causing as much grief and pain for my father and her ex as possible. So I really need to keep my head in the game.
If only I didn’t have the feel of her breasts etched in my mind, haunting me every day since.
As I climb into the car, she turns my way with a contemplative expression. Instantly, my car smells sweet and flowery, and it doesn’t help my dick situation.
“Damn, Peaches. You look nice.”
“You too, Church Boy. I like your suit.”
“Thanks,” I reply as I put the car into drive.
