Total pages in book: 32
Estimated words: 33213 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 166(@200wpm)___ 133(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 33213 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 166(@200wpm)___ 133(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
The kitchen lights glow soft and warm. The house is quiet. My nerves are loud enough to drown out thought.
I reach for a plate in the cabinet above the counter—my arms never quite long enough for the top shelf.
I stretch onto my toes, fingers brushing the edge of the ceramic. I wobble. And then strong hands clamp around my waist. I gasp, gripping the cabinet door to steady myself.
“Careful,” he murmurs. Right behind me. Too close. Too warm. His chest brushes my back. His breath hits my ear. My body goes molten.
“I— I almost had it,” I whisper.
“You almost fell,” he counters, voice low enough to curl inside my stomach.
“I didn’t.”
“You would’ve.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re stubborn.”
“You’re—” I can’t say anything coherent because he’s still holding my waist. My skin burns under his fingers. Slowly—so slowly I hate him for it—his hands glide upward, thumbs brushing beneath my ribs before he steadies my hips.
I freeze.
He looks down at me from behind, breathing hard. I can feel every inch of him. Every breath. Every bit of tension he’s trying and failing to hide.
“Let me,” he murmurs.
He reaches over me, arm brushing my hair aside as he plucks the plate easily with one hand.
His body molds around mine. His breath ghosts along my neck.
I tremble. Not subtly. He notices.
His mouth is so close I swear I feel the shape of his next words against my skin.
“You good?” he asks.
“No.”
The word slips out without my permission. He inhales sharply. My fingers grip the counter because my knees aren’t reliable right now.
“Briar,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, “look at me.”
I shake my head. “I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re—”
“Because I’m what?”
“Too close.”
He chuckles—dark, soft, dangerous. “I haven’t even touched you.”
“Yes, you have,” I whisper.
His hands still on my waist. His thumbs press a fraction deeper. Barely. But enough to send sparks through my entire body.
“Then tell me to stop,” he murmurs.
I open my mouth but nothing comes out.
His grip tightens—possessive, claiming—but not pulling me back, not dragging me into him. Just holding.
“Thought so,” he breathes.
He leans in and then he stops. He pulls his hands away like he’s been burned. Steps back. Shakes his head once, jaw tight enough to crack.
His chest rises hard. Too hard. He won’t look at me.
“Saxon?” I whisper.
He exhales like someone punched him in the ribs. “Shouldn’t do this.”
“Do what?” My voice is barely a sound.
“This,” he snaps, gesturing toward the space between us that suddenly feels miles too wide. “Touching you. Standing that close. Thinking about—”
He cuts himself off.
I grip the edge of the counter until the laminate digs into my palms. “Thinking about what?”
He looks at me then. Really looks. Like I’m a lit match and he’s doused in gasoline.
“Don’t make me say it,” he growls.
“Say what?”
“Briar.”
My name sounds different in his mouth. Rough. Sharp. Almost like a warning. Or a promise.
“I shouldn’t be here like this,” he says, dragging a hand over his jaw. “Not when we’re pretending.”
Right. Pretending. My stomach twists.
“We are pretending,” I remind him.
He laughs once—dry, humorless. “You keep telling yourself that if it helps you sleep.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means,” he says, stepping in just long enough for me to feel the heat coming off him again, “I don’t pretend well. Not about this.”
My breath stutters. “Saxon—”
And then he’s gone. Not out of the house. Just out of the kitchen. He moves to the hallway, palms braced on the wall beside Junie’s art, head bowed. Breathing hard. Fighting something. Losing.
I follow him because apparently I never learned self-preservation. He looks up slowly, and the restraint in his eyes is almost violent.
“Don’t walk over here,” he warns.
I stop. Barely. “I wasn’t—”
“You were.”
“I just—”
“Briar,” he murmurs, voice dropping so low it vibrates through me, “if you come one step closer to me right now, I won’t stop at almost.”
My stomach flips. My pulse slams.
“Saxon…”
He drags a hand through his hair. “Tell me to leave.”
“I don’t want you to leave.”
His head snaps up. Those dark eyes sharpen. Lock on mine. Pin me.
“Then you need to tell me something else,” he says. “Tell me what you want.” I open my mouth. Silence. His jaw flexes. “That’s what I thought.”
He pushes off the wall, walks past me, grabs his jacket from the hook. He pauses at the door. Not looking back. Not needing to. “I’ll be here tomorrow,” he says quietly. “Same time.”
My heart stutters. “Why?”
He finally turns. His eyes scorch. “Because engaged men show up. And because I want to.”
Heat floods me.
He steps outside, pulls the door shut behind him—and I’m left in my kitchen alone, breathless, and shaking because we both know the truth neither of us is allowed to say out loud: the engagement might be fake, but nothing else is.
Chapter Eight
Saxon
Every man in my station reacts when a woman walks in.
Doesn’t matter who she is—mothers dropping off brownies, girlfriends dropping off lunch, tourists wanting pictures. The guys all snap to attention like they’re posing for a goddamn calendar.