“I’m a business major, Niall. Not a gambler.”
“Ante up, Miss Cavanaugh. The stakes are about to be raised.” Reaching into my pocket, I pull out my cell phone and punch in her name. “Now give me your number.”
After a moment’s hesitation, she finally gives it to me, and I type that in as well. Once I hit enter, I follow it up with the call button and her phone rings. Raising an eyebrow, she digs it out of her backpack and answers.
“Hello?”
“This is Niall Mackay. Now you have my phone number. Program this shite in as My Darling Big Dick Fiancé.”
Laken wrinkles up her nose and makes a face. “You’re disgusting.”
“Aye, the loving way you talk to me is why I fell in love with you, my future fake wife.”
***
Only a real man can handle pastel painted nails.
Don’t question it. It’s true. If you see a man with Pure Baby Bliss #6 on one hand and Blue Mermaid Shimmer #9 on the other, do not question his masculinity. It takes a huge set of balls to carry that shite off.
And that’s exactly what I keep telling myself later that night as I sit in front of the coffee table in our small Chinatown apartment as Sophie sticks her tongue out of the corner of her mouth and concentrates hard at turning my hands into feckin’ cotton candy. I wanted to watch a movie; Sophie wanted to play dress-up.
Two guesses who won, and the first one doesn’t count.
“There,” Sophie announces, blowing on my newly pink glittered thumbnail. “Don’t move or you’ll mess it up.”
Right. Especially since that’s the first damn thing I plan to do when she goes to bed.
The whole situation with Laken seems too good to be true. While I’m not thrilled with the idea of introducing a woman I barely know to my bosses as someone I’m vowing to love and cherish till death do us part, this shite with Gloria leaves me no choice.
“Hey, Soph?” I ask, watching carefully as she closes the nail polish bottle. “What did you think of Laken?”
She tilts her head and pulls her eyebrows together. “Who?”
“Preston’s mom. The lady from the ice cream shop.”
She shrugs. “She’s okay, I guess. Why? Are you going to marry her?”
“What?” Startled, I take in her wide brown eyes, a complete mirror image of my own. “No…why would you say that?”
“You like her,” she says matter-of-factly as she gathers her nail polish in a sparkly pink cosmetic bag. “When people like each other, they get married.”
“Says who?”
“Oprah.”
“Oprah, huh?” I rest my chin in my palm, making sure to keep my still wet thumbnail away from my face. “What happened to taking advice from more age appropriate women like Cinderella and that chick with fins. What was her name, Ariel?”
Sophie stands and pops her hands on her hips. “Daddy, honestly? Are Disney princesses really the role models you want for me?”
“Oh?” I ask, secretly enjoying her individualism. “We’re revolting against princesses now?”
She rolls her eyes as if I should talk in grunts and walk around with my knuckles dragging the ground. “Ariel gave up her voice to run around on the beach after some dumb boy she barely knew, and he decided he loved her even though she couldn’t even talk. Really? This is the happily ever after you want for me?”
“Go to bed,” I tell her, pointing down the hallway. “No more television for you.”
A half hour later, I sit staring at my phone mulling over either texting her tonight or waiting until tomorrow. I try to convince myself that my rush isn’t about wanting to see or talk to her again, but more about wanting to get the logistics nailed down so when we arrive at the gala, there’s no question as to how committed we are to each other. It has nothing to do with me wanting to hear her voice again. That would make me a spineless douchebag.
It also has absolutely nothing to do with the way she looked at me while licking the ice cream off that spoon, her clear blue eyes focused on me with inquisitive interest as I spoke. Outwardly, she looks like the typical girl next door—all-American good looks, but Laken Cavanaugh has a sarcastic streak a mile wide that entices me just as much as her incredibly tight body. And that’s saying something.
She’s as American as apple pie. As the Fourth of July. As baseball and the Star-Spangled Banner. The perfect American to be the Irishman’s fake fiancée. At least for one night.
I’m getting ahead of myself. My focus needs to stay on the prize. Less than twenty-four hours ago, I had no idea Laken Cavanaugh existed. This is a business arrangement that benefits both of us. That’s it. End of story. The minute the gala is over, we’ll part ways. If I can uphold my end of the bargain, I’ll possibly see her around the office and that will be that.
It’s taken me eight years to get over the hell of Sophie’s mother leaving both of us for money and the promise of a better life. The last thing I need is to think about someone else with the same ideals. Besides, I need to remind myself that the only extra thing I want off her is a good time and an empty bed in the morning.
So why the hell can’t I get her off my mind?
