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The promise in those words shoots a pulse of longing through my soul. Jesus, how can make me feel these emotions at such a deep level? Then he steps back, and I draw in a breath. He spins around and, still holding my Louboutins, walks over to stand by the window. "Also, I need a fiancée to take home to my Grams.”
"Eh?” Of all the things he could have said, that was not what I expected.
"My grandmother refuses to have a heart operation that would save her life, unless I show her I’m serious about settling down. Hence…" He raises a shoulder and continues to look out the window.
"So you’re going to lie to her?"
"If it means convincing her to get the surgery, then yes.” He uses his free hand to rub the back of his neck. "When you meet Grams, you’ll understand. She’s as feisty as you."
"I’m not feisty."
"And stubborn," he goes on, completely ignoring my reaction. "You can’t make that woman do anything she doesn’t want to do. She’s been morose since her diagnosis. It’s why, on my last trip home, I left Tiny with her."
"That mutt has a way of lightening up things around him. But wouldn’t he be too much for her to take care of?"
"She has a companion who spends the day with her and helps her around the house. Part of her duties include walking Tiny every day and making sure he gets his exercise. And before you worry, she was thrilled to have Tiny there. She knows how to handle him, and there’s no additional demand on Grams’ energy. And Tiny is wonderful with her. He’s a gentle soul, and he livens up things and makes her laugh."
"It’s true; the only time I’ve seen you crack a smile is at his antics."
He turns to look at me over his shoulder. "I smile," he says with a frown on his face.
"Ha, ha, did you crack a joke?" I chuckle.
His lips twitch, drawing attention to that puffy lower lip, and that thin upper lip that promises there’s a streak of meanness running through him. A spark of anticipation fires up my nerve-endings. I can’t ignore the clenching in my belly, either. Gah, why can’t I go a few seconds without reacting to his lethal good looks?
"Also, why ask me to do this? Why not someone you know?"
"Like who?"
"An ex-girlfriend, maybe?"
His frown deepens, then he turns and leans back against the windowsill, my Louboutins dangling from his fingertips. It should look incongruous, but the delicate stilettos only serve to heighten his masculinity in comparison. "I don’t have an ex."
I mentally fist-pump. Outwardly, I narrow my gaze on him. "You never dated? Or had a girlfriend?"
"Never had time. I had lots of sex, of course."
"Of course," I huff.
His eyes gleam. "Lots and lots of sex, in all positions, and once with triplets, all of whom I satisfied—"
I swallow.
"—and at the same time."
Heat flushes my cheeks. "I don’t need the details."
"Isn’t that why you’re asking me questions, so you can find out more about me?"
"Don’t flatter yourself."
“You should be flattered I asked you to pose as my fiancé,” he drawls.
My eyeballs almost pop out of my head. “I hope you have the equipment to back up your massive ego,” I burst out.
“Wouldn’t you like to find out?” He drawls.
I survey his features for some sign that he’s joking, but nope. Those features are unruffled. No sign of emotions or some crack in his façade. Except for his narrowed gaze, I may as well be talking to a stone.
