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“Nah, the sun is just in my eyes. I’m sure he’s around somewhere.” I make a grand production of searching the area.
Her scrutiny burns into the side of my face. “Yeah, I bet he is. Which reminds me, what’s his name? Don’t think I missed how you dodged that question earlier.”
Determination rises to the surface. I hitch my thumb at a random dude selling organic fertilizer. “That’s John. He’s full of shit.”
“John?” She doesn’t bother sparing him a glance.
“That’s what I said.” It’s common enough to set the odds in my favor.
Her narrowed eyes flick to where I’d pointed. “Seriously?”
“Such little faith.” I cup a palm around my mouth to call out across the lot. “Hey, John!”
Several heads turn, none of them the dude I singled out. So much for my upstanding reputation.
As if agreeing, Grace releases a dry laugh. “Nice try.”
“That doesn’t mean he isn’t the one for you.”
A snarky hip cocks out at me. “Based on what criteria?”
“Are you questioning my methods?” I inject a hearty dose of offense, purely for my benefit.
She gives Not-John a more thorough appraisal. “Can you blame me? He doesn’t look like any of the pictures you sent either.”
“That’s because I haven’t had the chance to take one of him yet.” It’s not a total lie. I very well could’ve snapped a shot while waiting for her to arrive.
“How convenient.” The grit in her tone reveals that she’s definitely not buying what I’m selling.
“Fine, I don’t know his name.”
“And?” Her wrist rolls to encourage the confession dam to burst.
“That can easily be rectified. Would you like me to handle introductions?”
Grace tips her head to the sky, requesting patience in a silent plea. “Just come clean, faker.”
“About what?”
She moves into my space until we’re almost touching. Her finger jabs into my chest, but I barely notice. Sugary vanilla and filthy suggestions that lead to hours between the sheets drift on a gust to tease my senses. Once again, I fight to stave off the baser urges demanding I give her several orgasms to remember me by. Grace quirks a brow when I do a shit job stifling a groan. Almost as quickly, she remembers her outrage.
“You’re not helping by sending false advertising. These men”—she waves her phone—“aren’t realistic candidates. They’re models and stock photos.”
“I figured you wanted the cream of the crop.”
“Quit with the antics.” The flush coloring her cheeks is a sultry shade I’d prefer to admire in a different setting.
“Fine, but my actions weren’t completely dishonorable,” I grumble.
“Says you.”
“Did you actually believe me?”
“Not even for a second,” Grace mutters.
“See? No harm was caused. I’ll do better from now on.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
