My Fake Fiancée

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“I’m willing to negotiate here. What if we skip the kissing and stick to ‘and so on?’”

“This isn’t a joke. I barely know you.”

“What are you talking about? We’ve known each other for years.”

She could feel her red dress riding up her thighs and she tugged it down. “You didn’t even recognize me.”

“You grew up and got all sexy on me, that’s why.” His hand came down to rest on her knee, warm and confident. “We’re going to be spending a couple of months living together. Under the same roof. Based on that kiss, I’m guessing we’ve got pretty amazing chemistry. Are you seriously going to ignore it?”

The question hung in the air far too long before she found the strength to say “Yes.”

His hand moved up and down, not exactly a caress, but the next closest thing. “I think you’re getting pretty serious about something that doesn’t have to be.”

And that, right there, was the very reason that she had to have rules, and force both of them to stick to them.

Turning her body so she was facing him, and that thigh-to-thigh contact was broken, she said, “Sex is serious to me,” knowing he had to understand her position or they’d never make this thing work.

“Why?” He seemed genuinely curious.

“Because it matters.”

“Of course it matters. Sex feels good, is fun, doesn’t hurt anybody and could definitely help reduce some of the tension you’re carrying.”

“Is that really what you think? That sex is only a recreational sport, like a game of tennis?”

“Maybe not exactly like tennis, but a game that feels good, gets your heart rate up and relieves tension. What’s wrong with that?”

“Not for me. For me sex goes together with love. I can’t give myself to someone I don’t have deep feelings for.”

There was silence for a few beats. Then he removed his hand and said, “Okay.”

That was it? Okay? She had no idea why, but she felt let down. He hadn’t tried very hard to argue her out of her position. And not that she’d have caved, but it would have felt good to know she was so desirable he’d make an issue out of wanting to sleep with her.

She supposed he’d find another willing partner to play his games easily enough that not getting into her bed wasn’t going to bother him very much.

How depressing.

She hadn’t even been entirely honest. She’d slept with men she knew she didn’t love, but she’d always felt more than mere friendship, she supposed. And more than simply lust. And she hadn’t been sharing living quarters with them at the time.

Fortunately, since she couldn’t think of anything to talk about and her companion didn’t seem interested in starting a new subject of conversation, the cab pulled up in front of a brownstone on a quiet, tree-lined street. The area was one of the nicest in the city, and full of up-and-coming hotshots like David. She could walk everywhere from here, which was great, she reminded herself.

He paid off the cab and climbed out, then held out his hand to help her navigate high heels and a short skirt.

“Thanks,” she said, when she reached the pavement.

He let go of her hand and dug out his keys.

They walked up a few steps to a glossy black door with a leaded window embedded in the upper half, and when he opened the door and flipped on the lights, she followed him in and instantly fell in love.

His town house combined the best of the nineteenth century, when it had been built, with its original wainscoting and gleaming hardwood floors, fireplace and high ceilings, with completely modern furnishings, including the art and lighting.

The designer had stayed with a masculine palette, painting the rooms in burgundies, grays and some greens, but she liked it.

“It’s beautiful,” she said.

“Thanks. The kitchen’s through here,” he said as though he’d known she’d want to see that room before anything else. He led her through the living room, pointing out a powder room on that level, and then he opened double doors and she found herself falling in love all over again.

“It’s huge,” she said, not able to come up with anything more original.

“I had the dining room taken out and one big kitchen put in. I’m not the dining-room type. I figured this was more practical. Not that I cook much.”

She walked forward and ran her fingers over dark gray granite counters the way she’d touch a lover’s face. A breakfast bar had four high-tech stools pulled up to it, but an old farmhouse table that just begged for a jug of fresh flowers to sit on it provided sit-down dining. Most of one wall was windows.

She glanced back at David. “Are you kidding me? Look at these appliances,” she crooned, running her fingers over sleek industrial stainless steel. “Gas oven, perfect. And a six-burner stove.” The fridge was double-sided and if the pull-out freezer wasn’t large, she didn’t think that would matter. She intended to buy fresh and cook fresh. David could fill his entire freezer with ice cubes for all she cared.

Clearly, Sarah hadn’t lied about David never using his own fancy kitchen. There was a sterility to the space that suggested not much cooking went on here.

She opened the oven door, picturing her trays inside. Peeking into the fridge, she found it a bachelor cliché. “There’s nothing in here but booze and a few take-out containers.”

He shrugged. “I’m not home much.” He seemed to enjoy her excitement as she dragged open every cupboard and drawer, gauging how much she’d have to buy and where she’d put her supplies. She was delighted at how relatively empty his storage spaces were and knew that wouldn’t last for long.

“This is so perfect,” she said, looking up to find him regarding her with amusement.

“You haven’t even looked at your bedroom.”

“Who needs to sleep when you have a kitchen like this? Oh, the things I’ll be able to create in this space.”

But she followed him down a short corridor and up a flight of stairs.

“My bedroom,” he said, opening the first door. Ah, she thought, here’s where he spends most of his time when he’s at home. The bed was huge, and the room, although neat, sported stuff. Including a TV he could watch from his bed.

He crossed the hall and opened the last door. “And your room.”

Like everything else in this town house but his bedroom, her room had obviously been staged by a decorator and never touched since. It was done in neutral shades, contained a queen-size bed, a dresser, mirror, some not very interesting art on the walls and its own en suite. A neat stack of moving boxes on the floor told her her stuff had arrived okay.

“It’s beautiful. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. Remember, we’re helping each other out.”

She looked up and saw him regarding her with a mixture of longing and frustration. He shoved his hands in his pockets. “There’s one more floor where I keep a home office.”

“Okay.”

A beat of silence ticked by.

“You did good tonight. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. I enjoyed myself. They seem like nice people.”

“They are.” He stood there, leaning against the doorjamb. “I wasn’t sure where you’d want your stuff, so I put the boxes in your room, but unpack however you like. My house is your house. I put the box labeled ‘bathroom’ right in your bathroom, but everything else is here.”

“Oh, right. Good.” She was so busy thinking about how good he tasted that she’d forgotten she didn’t have so much as a toothbrush with her. Sarah, who thought of everything, had told her to pack all her stuff up and have it sent over to David’s.

His gaze dipped to her mouth and she knew he was reliving their kiss just as she was. “You really serious about those rules of yours?”

Oh, it would be so easy to shake her head, let herself go. So easy.

And such a truly, monumentally terrible idea. Maybe, if she didn’t have to live here for the next couple of months, maybe she’d throw her own sense of what was right for her out the window. She’d take one step and be in his arms, then his bed.

And tomorrow? He’d have a new partner. For all she knew, he played doubles. She really didn’t think she could stay in his guest room while he carried on his carefree bachelor existence. Not once she’d been intimate with him. She wasn’t built that way.

So, with some regret, she nodded. “I’m serious.”

He shook his head. “Okay, then. Good night.”

She heaved a sigh of combined relief and frustration when he exited, leaving her alone in a tasteful, neutral guest room.

She used up some of her restless energy in unpacking her suitcases, putting her clothes away in the closet and dresser. Then she organized the bathroom and unpacked her toiletries and prepared herself for bed.

It was late, and she was tired but she wasn’t sleepy. She dug out one of her favorite cookbooks and crawled into bed with Chef Patricia Yeo. She read cookbooks the way some people read Dickens or Shakespeare. She could dip into the same books over and over again and always find something new.

At last, she flipped out the light and settled herself in the big, empty bed. It had been a lot of years since Chelsea fell asleep thinking about kissing David.

In truth, she wasn’t thinking about kissing. Her imagination had moved on. And she wasn’t anywhere near sleep.

She sighed and punched the pillow.

It was going to be a long couple of months.

6

“I THINK MY TONGUE just had an orgasm,” Sarah moaned as she bit into the tiny lime-and-pomegranate tart, fresh from the oven. Her fourth in less than a minute.

Chelsea couldn’t remember when she’d felt so gratified.

Four days since she’d moved into David’s place and already she was experimenting, cooking with recipes she knew as she got comfortable with the stove and playing with local ingredients to try new combinations.

“You are a food genius.” Sarah swallowed, tried to control herself and gave in, reaching for another tart. “This is my last one. Stab me with that chef’s knife if I even try to reach for another tart.” She popped the treat into her mouth and closed her eyes as she devoured it. Opening them again, she said, “I am going to have to spend the next week at the gym to make up for it.”