I don’t think.
“Are you going to answer the door?” Carly asks, and I take in her grin. I have no idea why she thinks this is anything more than an arrangement. It’s not.
I drop my phone back into my purse, and with a big smile on my face, I swing the door open. But as soon as I see the tall figure invading my front stoop, my jaw falls open, all pretense of happiness dissolving as I set eyes on none other than the big stupid jerk himself.
“What...what are you doing here, Roman?” I ask and try to glance around him, to see if my pretend husband is on his way, but his big, dumb body and impressive height fill my doorway and block everything else out—even the gigantic full moon.
“Well, hello to you, too, Peyton.”
I take a fast breath, but my lungs are tight, constricted. “Why are you here?” I ask, and hate that I sound like a damn chipmunk jacked up on Red Bull.
His dark gaze moves over my face and slips lower to take in my dress, and goddammit, my traitorous body warms in all the wrong places. This is the man who kissed me and then laughed in my face. Sure, we were at Sebastian and Rylee’s wedding, and the champagne had been flowing, but who does something like that? Who stares at me all night, turning my blood to molten lava, then plants the hottest, sexiest kiss on my lips, and walks away laughing?
A stupid jerk, that’s who.
I give him a once-over. It’s been a year since I set eyes on him, and I’m not sure how it’s possible but this updated version of the man I hate is filling me with unwanted images—of him slipping between my thighs and bringing me to orgasm. My sex clenches, an impatient reminder that I crave being touched—properly, just once—and standing before me is a delicious specimen who undoubtedly knows his way around a woman’s body.
You hate him, remember?
I shut down my overstimulated imagination and take in the tightness of his jaw, the rigid set of his muscles when he says, “I’m here to take you on a date and get to know you.”
I stand there immobilized, my lungs void of air as his words sink into my rattled brain. “Surely to God you’re not—”
“Your pretend husband?” He arches a brow. “Yeah, that’s me, and I apologize for being late,” he says, not looking one bit sorry at all. In fact, he looks completely pissed off, like he doesn’t like this situation any more than I do. “There was an issue.”
“An issue!” I say, my voice bordering on hysteria. “I’ll say there’s an issue.”
“Well, this just became interesting,” Carly mumbles under her breath as she turns the TV off and slips into the other room.
Interesting?
It’s anything but interesting. It’s a damn disaster. No way am I flying to Malta with Roman Bianchi and pretending to be married to him. I can’t stand the man. In fact, I hate everything about him. Except his face. Yeah, I don’t really hate that. And his body. That’s pretty banging, too. But his tailor-made suit, yeah, I hate that. I just don’t hate the way it highlights his broad shoulders and tight muscles, and reminds me my battery-operated boyfriend hasn’t been cutting it for some time now.
Good lord, Peyton. Get it together.
I close my eyes tight, hoping when I open them again he’ll be gone, his presence nothing but a figment of my imagination, but nooooo, when my lids snap open he’s still standing there, his gaze latched on mine. I swear to God, in the nanosecond I had my eyes closed, the man grew taller, broader...hotter.
“I take it your brother never told you he asked me.”
My gaze narrows on him. “This can’t be happening.”
I go for my phone again. “I need to call Cason. There must be a mix-up.” I shake my head. “Why would he ask you?”
“Because I’m one of his best friends and he’s completely overprotective of you,” he says, something warm and personal in his voice as he speaks about my brother. “Trust doesn’t come easily to Cason and he knows I’d never mess with his kid sister.”
His words are combustible, like a spark to tinder, and it fuels the anger in my blood. “I’m a grown woman. I don’t need my brother coddling me, and for God’s sake I can mess with whoever I want.”
“Are you saying you want to sleep with me, Peyton?”
“No,” I say quickly, maybe too quickly, judging by the smirk on his face. “I don’t even like you.”
“Good, because I don’t want to sleep with you, either.” He scrubs his face, and I catch the flash of anguish in his eyes before he blinks it away. “In fact, I’m done with women,” he mumbles under his breath. “Another reason Cason trusts me with you.”
My body stiffens, and for one split second, my heart goes out to him, the hate inside me momentarily evaporating, making room for sorrow to fill the void. I might not like him, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have compassion or care about his well-being. Two years ago, his fiancée up and left weeks before the wedding. My heart squeezes. I can’t imagine how awful, how excruciatingly painful, that was for him.
He kissed you, laughed and walked away, Peyton.
Anger flares bright at that brutal reminder, and I turn my focus to my phone. I’m about to punch in Cason’s number when Roman’s big hand closes over mine to stop me, his touch sending sparks of sensation through my body.
“He asked me to do this, so I’m doing it.” He pauses, and I almost flinch at the seriousness in his face when he adds, “I’m not about to let him down.”
No, I’m the only Harrison you don’t mind letting down.
“We’re doing this, Peyton,” he says, his voice firm, businesslike.
I hate the tension in my body, the way it comes alive the second he’s in the vicinity. My nipples tighten in betrayal, revealing my arousal, and I pray to God he can’t see what he’s doing to me.
“No, you obviously don’t want to do this,” I say through clenched teeth. “I’ll get someone else.” His thumb brushes the inside of my wrist, a gentle sweep that I’m not sure he’s aware he’s doing. Heated memories of the hungry kiss we shared come back in a sensual rush. As illicit images dance in my mind’s eye, the visual caress teases and torments the needy spot between my legs.
“Whether I want to or not is not the point,” he responds bluntly.
“I’ll call Cason,” I say, and squeeze my thighs together in an effort to subdue the heat in my body, but I’d have more luck stopping a runaway train with my pinkie finger. “We’ll find someone else through the app. I’m sure there are plenty of other guys willing to help in exchange for cash.”