“You should try it on,” he manages to rasp.
“I . . .” She hesitates. “Maybe this isn’t . . .”
“What, you getting cold feet on me?” But she still doesn’t make a move toward the ring. “Okay, how about this?” He takes the box and slides the ring out of it before reaching for her hand. When did they get this close together? He can smell the scent of something a little powdery and floral in her hair, sweet and subtle. Taking her left hand, he lifts it. He manages to suppress the urge to press his mouth against the inside of her wrist and instead, slides the ring onto her fourth finger gently.
It fits.
Because of course it does.
Just a little extra sweet torture from the universe on this absolute shitshow of a plan he’s concocted.
He steps back. He needs space. Needs to escape the scent of her and the smooth skin of the back of her hand.
Shit, he needs more ouzo.
“So, what, should I just take a picture of my hand? That’s what everyone does, right?”
He’s seen enough of those posts over the years, his own friends finding someone to settle down with.
“Nah, we should do something a little bit different.”
“What did you have in mind?”
And of course it goes against everything his brain was telling him to do just seconds ago, but honestly, he doesn’t give a damn. If they’re gonna do this, they should do it right.
He steps closer, reaching out, his hand landing at her hip. “Is this okay?” he asks, drawing her in with just the lightest pressure.
She just hums her acceptance. And that’s one more thing he’d like to know, if that’s the sound she’d make every time his mouth finds just the right spot.
“Okay,” he says, pulling his phone from his back pocket and opening the camera. “Here, you take this. And what if I . . .” His free hand finds hers and lifts it toward his mouth. “Is that okay?”
His lips brush the inside of her wrist, the skin there softer than he imagined, her scent stronger, probably where she’d dabbed on some perfume before the party, and he doesn’t look up until she clears her throat gently.
“What do you think?” she asks, holding his phone out, showing him the picture.
And yeah, that’s . . . exactly what he imagined. His pale skin contrasting against her olive tones, his five o’clock shadow standing out, reminding him that he hasn’t shaved since yesterday, and his mother’s ring on her finger.
“It’s perfect,” he says, honestly the only possible thing he could say, because it is. Absolutely perfect. Even if it is complete bullshit. “Post that and give them the shock of their lives.”
Chapter 3
Cotton mouth and a head that feels like it’s stuffed in a vice and calves aching from hours balancing on heels feels like a horrific flashback to freshman year. She hasn’t felt like this since she was eighteen. Except back then it was easy enough for Bianca to down some water and Tylenol and grab some greasy food in the dining hall to make the hangover go away.
At thirty, with her face pressed into the microfiber of her living room couch and her joints already aching from sleeping on a surface not specifically designed to protect her back twice in one day, it’s a million times worse.
Plus, she can’t move.
Not liketoo stiff to stretchcan’t move, but actuallyheld down by a strong arm around her waist and pressed into the cushions by a firm chest and a large, muscled leg thrown over the top of herscan’t move.
Apparently Xavier is a snuggler.
And if she was feeling even semi-human, she might be able to appreciate it more.
She doesn’t even remember how they ended up like this.
Wracking her brain, she has a vague recollection of why he’s here. Too much vodka followed by way too much tequila. The absolutely batshit idea of faking an engagement, his mother’sring, an Instagram post and . . . enough ouzo to knock out an entire Greek island. The last time she had that much was at her sister’s wedding five years ago, right before she started her degree – funnily enough, just a few days before she met Xavier.
It would be kind of poetic if everything didn’t hurt so fucking much. And if he wasn’t giving off the heat of a thousand suns. Last night it was kind of cool out for late May in LA, but this morning or afternoon – or whatever it is, she can’t tell because she refuses to open her eyes and let the room spin – it’s back to normal and the amount of heat his body is generating is suffocating.
