“I’m a big girl, Mr. Phillips,” I tell him and open the door with sassy flourish. “I can take care of myself.”
If only he knew the truth about the two of us. A one-night stand turned into a lie of epic proportions.
* * *
I don’t know how I got through the rest of the day but somehow time still passed and placed me back at home, frantically tearing through my closet, looking for something to wear. I mean, now I have to think like a celebrity and I can’t get caught wearing the same outfit twice.
Or maybe I can because I’m just a normal girl and that’s why the media is running with this, because I am the type of person–you know, normal–who would wear a repeat outfit.
Argh. I can’t decide. I’ve literally tried on everything I own and everything comes across as either too revealing or too dowdy. Plus, it’s growing hotter as the day goes on, which is effectively ruining my makeup job, going from looking like I’m not making an effort (but really am) to just looking like I’m not making an effort. There’s a big difference between the glow of a highlighter and an oil slick of sweat.
I can’t even borrow Carla’s clothes because she’s two sizes smaller than me and even after I lost some weight, my hips remain their stubborn size. Stupid bones. Forget child-bearing hips, mine can birth a whole heifer.
In the end, I decide to slip on a red sundress and sandals. The color is flashy but I know it suits me and the neckline is fairly modest. The only dilemma now is whether I should wear my shorts or not. Yes, shorts. Not just for unexpected breezes but to protect against chub rub. My thighs are gapless and if there’s a lot of walking, they can create enough friction to start a fire.
Normally, I wouldn’t wear them on a date, particularly if I was feeling lucky. They don’t seem to have the Bridget Jones’ granny panty effect, wherein wearing them increases my chances of having sex. Instead, they just turn into awkward conversation when you’re trying to get naked. You know, let me take off my sexy bra and also these shorts that I have to wear so that my ample thighs don’t incinerate me on the spot. Yeah, super sexy.
But Emmett is texting me that he’s waiting outside, so I opt to wear them, thinking it will remind me to not have sex with him, no matter what happens.
It isn’t until I’m stepping out into the kitchen that I remember Bridget Jones wore her granny panties for the exact same reason. And look what happened. She slept with sleazy Hugh Grant and her whole life got turned upside down.
I suppose it’s a little too late for that.
“You look hot,” Carla says as she stands by the oven, munching on a cookie. “Hot with a W. Like hawt. Which means really hot. Speaking of hot, it’s really hot today. Or maybe it’s this oven. Hey, want a cookie?”
I eye her and the cookies. I’ve learned my lesson with her baking many times before.
“What kind of cookies are they?” I ask suspiciously.
“Pot cookies,” she says, a few crumbs falling from her mouth. She covers her smile with her hand.
“And how many of them have you had?”
“I’ve only had one before. If you include this, it’s two. But it hasn’t been digested yet, so I’m not sure.”
“It’s okay, I’m good.”
“So you’re actually seeing this guy now, huh.”
I shrug. Carla is another person I can’t quite tell the truth to. I’ve been passing it off like this is just something fun for now and not going into too much detail, which thankfully she hasn’t been pushing with me. I think the fact that she’s stoned most of the time helps.
“I thought I’d give him a chance,” I tell her. “Not everyone gets to go out with Cruiser McGill.”
“I thought it was Bruiser NoChill,” she says. Then she starts laughing. “The Bruiser and the Blonde. Bruiser and Blondie. I like that. Hey, do you think if I call up TMZ and tell them about your nickname, they’ll pay me?”
“You can give it a shot,” I tell her, knowing full well she’ll forget this idea in a minute. “But if you get rich off of it, you owe me.”
“Deal. Have fun, okay?”
“I will,” I lie.
Because honestly, I don’t see how any of this is going to be fun. It’s going to be weird, that’s what it is. And sometimes weird is all fun and good but going on a date with your fake boyfriend whom you find ridiculously attractive and also really dislike at the same time pushes weird to a whole other level.
Maybe I should have grabbed a pot cookie after all. Really shake this shit up.
The sun is still shining and right into my eyes when I step out of the apartment building. I don’t see Emmett’s Audi anywhere but I do see a giant black Suburban with a smartly dressed man, I’m guessing the driver, standing by the back door.
“After you, ma’am,” he says to me as I approach, opening the door for me.
“Uh, thanks, person I don’t know.” I peek inside and see Emmett in a slick suit, sitting in the backseat, grinning at me. “Come on in, beautiful,” he says to me and he says it with so much feeling and sincerity that my stomach does a couple of backflips.
Damn it. That actually felt nice.
Smiling like all kinds of awkward, I slide into the backseat as the driver shuts the door.
I barely have time to settle and take in the scene when Emmett is cupping my face in his broad hands and pulling me into him.
His lips crash against mine, soft and gentle and warm and I’m so shocked at what’s happening, I can’t even move. But then my lips know what to do and my mouth yields to him as I’m sucked into a long, sweet kiss. A current runs through me when his tongue touches mine; I feel it all the way to my toes which I know are curling in my sandals.
Everything inside me is coming alive, not with a cold slap but with a slow, luxurious build, just this kiss that deepens with each second, a long, languid pull that stirs me around inside, sugar dissolving.
I’m barely aware of where we are, what we are, when the driver’s door slams shut, shaking the car.
It’s then that Emmett pulls back and stares at me so intensely that I feel everything inside me light on fire and melt.
“I have missed you so much,” he says to me, his voice low, raspy and completely earnest as he searches my eyes.
My jaw would be on the floor if his strong hands weren’t securely holding my face.
Holy shit.
Does he mean this?
And then…
He winks at me. Subtle, but it’s a wink.
And then reality comes along.
I pull back slightly, trying to catch my breath, to calm my heart. God damn it, I swear I’m throbbing between my legs just from that simple kiss.
And it was all for show.
None of that was real.
That was just for the driver, that was the first performance of our fake relationship.
I had no fucking idea he was that good of an actor. No wonder he sleeps with his co-workers, how can they tell the difference between acting and reality?
I should be impressed but actually I’m a little ashamed of myself for falling for it for a split second. I’m going to need to keep my guard up.
“Did you miss me?” he asks in deliberation, coaxing me to respond.
Right. That. “Uh yeah. I missed you,” I tell him. Damn it, I don’t sound convincing at all. “Like, real bad. Baby.”
Emmett is trying not to laugh at how absolutely lame I sound. He manages to cover it up. “Alyssa, I’d like you to meet our driver, Alfonso. He’ll be taking us to dinner tonight.”
I straighten in my seat and glance at the rearview mirror to see Alfonso staring back at me and nodding.
I guess there really is no privacy for him. If people in restaurants are spies, who is to say that private drivers aren’t either. Which makes me realize, unless we’re completely alone somewhere, we’ll always have to be on.
On the plus side, that means I’ll be kissed like that more often.
Negative side, it means I’ll be kissed like that more often.
You can only be kissed like that, looked at like that, talked to like that, so many times before you either, A) screw him silly or B) start believing it.