Well, fuck.
Sign. Me. Up.
3
Jillian
“I’ll do it.”
“What?” I mean, that was Becca’s plan, but I still hadn’t decided if I was going to ask Klaus.
He’ll have to pretend to be my boyfriend. Someone who loves me enough to prove I’ve totally moved on from Roman and Julianna. I’m not sure my mental health can handle spending a weekend with Klaus pretending we’re dating and then coming back home after and going back to being friends.
“Sure. Why wouldn’t I do it?”
“Are you sure?” I take a small sip. Too much wine will go straight to my head. My appetite still hasn’t returned since Saturday, mostly because I’ve been dreading this moment. “Because it’s not just a date, I mean, it is, but we’d have to act in love and all that stuff.”
Klaus laughs and pushes off his stool. “I do understand the general idea of being a boyfriend and what that entails.”
A warm, calloused, and gorgeous hand covers mine, forcing both my hand and the avocado oil glass bottle to the counter.
“Look at me.”
When I do, he steals my breath. I’ve been able to hide my reaction to him for years. First I pushed it aside because I was stupidly in love with Roman, and then we were friends.
Are friends.
Right. Friends shouldn’t feel this way or have their body heat just because they’re in close, touching proximity to each other.
Someone should tell that to my vagina.
“What about Bailey?” Bailey’s his on-again, off-again cheerleader girlfriend with the local NBA team. She’s also a pre-med student and sweet as hell. It’s difficult to hate her even when I tried. And before Bailey, there was Barbie and Brianna and Bianca. Klaus has such a fascination with women whose names start with the letter B I hesitated to ever introduce him to Becca. Fortunately, Becca’s immune to his charm.
“I haven’t seen Bailey in months.”
“What?” I ask again. “I thought…”
“We weren’t serious. And she wanted something I couldn’t give her.”
“What’s that?”
“Commitment. My heart.” His steel-blue eyes are perfectly framed with long, golden-brown lashes that blink slowly. “I didn’t feel that way about her, so we ended things, firmly, months ago, and I don’t want to talk about her anymore. I’d love to take you to the wedding. In fact, I want to take you.”
A tiny little bubble of hope lifts my voice. “Really? You’ll pretend with me?”
His eyes bounce from mine, to my nose, to my lips before meeting my gaze. I swear that steely blue deepens into another emotion before he smiles. “Sure. I’ll pretend with you.”
A flutter of warmth skips across my shoulder, to my neck, down my spine.
Pretend to be in love with Klaus Newman?
I can totally pull that off.
But can I do it while hiding the fact I think I’m already halfway in love with the guy?
I guess we’ll see how good of an actress I am.
“Good. Thank you.”
“No thanks required.” He kisses my cheek, something innocuous. We do it all the time. This time, I swear he lingers. Then he whispers, “I’ve been waiting for a chance to show Roman how big of a dipshit I think he is anyway.”
“Right,” I whisper.
The bubble of hope pops like a balloon.
He’s doing this to shove it to Roman.
Of course he is. It’s not only futile because Roman won’t care, it’s unnecessary. The only part of me still hurting over our failed relationship is my bruised ego. It’s certainly not my heart. I’m pretty sure after the years I spent with Roman, I never really gave that to him.
“I need to finish dinner.”
“I need a drink.”
“Your favorite vodka is in the freezer.”
“You’re so good to me, Jilly-Bean.”
I scrunch up my face, earning a deep, happy chuckle from Klaus as he pulls back and heads toward my refrigerator. I allow myself one quick moment to check out his backside as he walks away from me before refocusing on dinner.
“If I match your salary, will you quit your job and become my personal chef?”
“Asked and answered, Klaus.”
He wipes his napkin over his mouth, his plate quickly emptied.
I’m not even sure how we started hanging out, but I know the first night it was after a signing at the mall. I’d spent hours prepping posters and hockey pucks and miniature sticks for the four guys on the Ice Kings team my company represents. He’d sat there, making me laugh, teasing me about running out of breath and somehow, through the lines of children and adults queued up through South Park Mall in order to meet their favorite players, he’d suggested we go running together sometime.
So we met up a couple weeks later to my surprise when he texted. We ran six miles before grabbing lunch. Eventually, our runs became longer, our friendship grew closer and then we were alternating after-run meals at either my house or his. Then it grew to soccer games. Dinners out. And over the last several months, when he needs a plus-one for a community fundraiser even like at the hospital last week, I’m his go-to girl.
But it doesn’t mean anything more than that. Since Roman cheated on me, left me and decided to marry my best friend, nothing between Klaus and I has changed… even though in the last six months especially, it’s difficult not to realize how attracted to the guy I am.
There’s no way I’m screwing up our friendship and the good thing we have going because of hormones, though. After my embarrassing breakup, Klaus has been there every step of the way reminding me there are good guys in the world, but never once has he offered himself as one of them.
This meal isn’t the first time, or the third or twentieth he’s asked me to become his chef.
“Yeah, but this is really good.” He gives me an adorable grin that makes my stomach flutter.
“I’m not going to work for you.”
“What if I double your salary?”
“Oh. In that case…” Pretending to think it over, I tap my finger to my chin.
“Jilly-Bean…”
I point at him. “Only if you never call me that name again.”
He gives his head one quick shake, thick sandy brown hair swishing with the movement. “No dice. Offer rescinded.”
He drinks his vodka tonic while I laugh. “What? You won’t promise not to call me some ridiculous nickname in exchange for never having to cook again?”
He despises cooking almost as much as he hates cleaning or folding laundry. Klaus’s list of basic life skills he doesn’t like doing is long and extensive. Hence why he has a weekly cleaning lady and pays for a laundering service. All he has to do is throw his dirty clothes in a bag and leave them on his front patio. Two or three days later, everything is back, folded perfectly like magic.
“No. Your deal is too heavy for me to comply.”
“Why?”
He stops mid-drink and lowers his glass. With a look I can only describe as scalding, he simply says, “Because I like the way it makes you blush and smile.”