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She shakes her head as if she can’t believe this is really happening. “We leave Friday at noon. I’ll send Greta a packing list,” she says, her gaze sweeping down my body. “Or more likely for you, a shopping list.”
Lauryn | Friday noon
Whoisthisman,and what has he done with my boss? The only recognizable feature of the guy leaning against a black SUV, twirling the key fob around his finger as I wheel my suitcase over, are those familiar, rich-brown eyes. First, instead of a suit and tie, Miles is wearing a long-sleeved, hunter-green, waffle-knit Henley. The sleeves are tugged up to reveal forearms still bronzed from a summer tan. Then, there are his jeans.
Well-worn jeans, and not in the way new designer jeans look distressed. Even in the yellow light of the office parking garage, I can tell the denim is faded. Here and there, small frayed threads peek out at the seams and the bottom cuffs at the back are tattered. The knees and thighs are worn and mold to his body. The fabric looks soft and supple, thanks to years of wear and countless washes.
My fingers itch to reach out and run along the waistband of those jeans, but I don’t, at least not yet. We haven’t hit the road, and the parking garage is bustling with folks coming back from lunch and eager to wrap up the workweek. These people aren’t my family. They’re not the ones we need to fool. But mark my words, sometime this weekend, I’m tucking my hands into those back pockets because if Miles were my actual boyfriend, that’s exactly what I would do.
“You didn’t need to send Greta shopping, I see,” I say as he steps forward and reaches for my rolling bag with the hint of an amused smile curling up one corner of his lips.
He slides my suitcase next to his in the back. “Oh, but I did.”
“For what?” I study him, but even his tan work boots are scuffed with dirt on the treads and a smudge on the toe.
“For this.” He presses a button on the back hatch of the black Range Rover’s door and tilts his head toward the vehicle. It’s gleaming.
My jaw drops. “You bought an SUV for our getaway?”
Miles is filthy rich, sure, but he doesn’t flaunt it. He prefers quality and dresses well, and yeah, his Craftsman-style home is big enough for a houseful of kids, even though he’s a bachelor, but he’s driven the same Jaguar sedan for the past two years. And he already has some sort of super fancy sports car I had to arrange to get serviced a few months ago.
“We’re going to the country, aren’t we? To a farm?”
He’s dead serious. The Miles I know doesn’t mince words and never jokes around. He sees the world in black and white, right or wrong. Although in the copy room the other day, when he was working hard to convince me he could pull off this charade, there was something about the way he stepped up to me that made me wonder if there isn’t another side of him. One I’ve never been privy to at work, though he’s more open with me than anyone else in the firm. Even his father.
“It’s an orchard, not a farm full of horses and cattle. There might be dirt, and it might be a small town hundreds of kilometers from the city, but it still has paved roads, believe it or not.”
Miles lifts a shoulder as if buying an SUV on a whim isn’t a big deal because, for him, it isn’t. He circles around to open the passenger side door for me. Like a boyfriend would. I shoot him an approving smile. “Practicing, are we?”
He’s so close as I stand in the pocket between his body and the SUV his cologne fills the air rather than exhaust fumes. The same spicy scent he always wears. The one that smells expensive and I’ve had zero luck finding at the cologne counters in all the local department stores.
With a hand on the door, I glance up before sliding in and meet his coffee-colored eyes hooded in the dim light.
“Practice makes perfect,” he murmurs in a low tone that slithers through me down to the juncture between my thighs. He’s not talking about holding the door, and we both know it.
Time to test the waters. “Maybe, we should practice a kiss then, you know, so the first one isn’t in front of an audience.”
He releases the door handle and steps closer, widening his stance, so his feet are on either side of mine as he presses his palm flat against the back window. I’m pinned in place, and he isn’t even touching me. As if that wasn’t hot enough, he murmurs, “A kiss like I mean it? One with my whole body?”
The hum from his chest as he asks is audible, but I barely have time to process the delicious sound because coherent thought escapes me. Although, for the briefest second, I have the ridiculous sense this isn’t practice. Which is impossible, of course, because I’m not Mile’s type. Not by a mile. I’m gregarious and fun-loving and uncensored and all the things he’s not.
But this weekend, for forty-eight hours, I get to pretend he’s mine, and though we haven’t even hit the road, I’m a twisting, twirling mess of hormones. He’s a whisper from me, and I’m craving his kiss like a flame hungry for oxygen. And just as hot.
“Yes,” I reply, desperate for even a chaste kiss, although I know now I’m in for much, much more.
“Are you sure?”
Why is he dragging this out?“We have a deal, Miles. You agreed. Forty-eight hours of pretending we’re together and you promised to be convincing. Come Monday morning, everything will be back to normal.”
“Yes,” he says, “you have my word.” His resigned tone makes me wonder if he’s regretting volunteering for the role of Lauryn’s boyfriend, but I don’t have time to ask because he wastes no time in pressing me against the cool metal from hip to chest. The air is sucked from my lungs as he sweeps a hand up my jaw to cradle my cheek, and I’m simultaneously melting into him and trembling from his touch.
He laces his fingers into my hair and lowers his lips to mine. His kiss is firm yet gentle and not rushed. He takes his time exploring every inch of my mouth, and the warmth of his touch spreads through me like molten lava.
His fingers dig into my hip, and my breasts press against the hard wall of his chest. I reach up, twisting the knit of his shirt in my grasp as if it’s a lifeline. He tilts his head to deepen the kiss, his tongue running along my lower lip, and I open for him because this moment is everything I’ve fantasized about for years. Only better.
Miles’ tongue explores, and I curve a hand around his neck, grateful for the pressure of his body against mine because I’m sure if he let me go, I’d collapse into a boneless heap.
Just when I’m almost lost completely, he pulls away and every fiber of my body protests. My pulse races. My heart pounds so loudly there’s no doubt he can feel it knocking against his chest. My eyes flutter open, and my breath is ragged as I look up to find Miles, looking almost as wrecked as I feel.
