Total pages in book: 22
Estimated words: 20836 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 104(@200wpm)___ 83(@250wpm)___ 69(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 20836 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 104(@200wpm)___ 83(@250wpm)___ 69(@300wpm)
Adrian looks at the cover with deep skepticism, eyes darting to the door, probably already plotting his escape. "This looks like it shouldn't have seen the light of day."
"It's a beautiful love story about second chances and healing from trauma."
"The gentleman isn't wearing a shirt."
"Very observant. Read it anyway."
Something about the challenge makes him agree. "Fine. One book."
I can't help my triumphant smile. While Adrian heads to the counter, I wander to the poetry section, running my fingers along spines, pulling out collections that catch my eye. When I return to the front, Adrian is paying for his purchases. The bag looks suspiciously full for just one book.
"How many books did you buy?" I ask.
"One. As agreed."
"That bag looks heavy for one book."
"It's a very dense book."
I know he's lying, but I don't call him out. Something warm unfurls in my chest at the thought of him secretly buying more of my recommendations.
When Adrian mentions the firm's charity gala next week—a perfect opportunity to practice being a couple in public—I agree without the hesitation I might have felt this morning.
"Black tie."
"Of course it is," and he almost-smiles again. That's when I realize I've started cataloging his smiles: the almost-smile, the one-corner-lift, the full smile I've only seen once. I'm in trouble. Like, deep trouble.
The days between the bookstore and the gala pass in a strange rhythm. Adrian texts me daily—questions about my childhood, my favorite foods, stories I'd tell at family dinners. I answer, then ask my own.
Adrian: Favorite breakfast?
Me: Chocolate chip pancakes with whipped cream. You?
Adrian: Plain oatmeal with fruit.
Me: That's not breakfast. That's punishment.
Adrian: First concert?
Me: Green Day, age 15, snuck out with Marcus.
Adrian: Beethoven's 9th, age 7, fell asleep.
Me: Of course you did.
The texts gradually shift from interrogation to conversation.
Adrian: Reading that book you recommended. The hero just punched someone for insulting the heroine.
Me: Wait till chapter 9 when they get stuck in the cabin during the snowstorm.
Adrian: There's a snowstorm cabin scenario? That's extremely convenient plotting.
Me: It's a classic trope for a reason. One bed, too.
Adrian: Of course. Had to be
Adrian: Just finished it. The ending was... okay.
Me: You LIKED it! Admit it!
Adrian: I found it less objectionable than expected.
Me: That's Adrian-speak for "I loved it and cried at the end."
Adrian: I did not cry.
Me: Sure, counselor. Whatever you say.
By the time the gala night arrives, I've learned that Adrian is allergic to bee stings, his favorite color is the blue-gray of dawn, and he once wanted to be a pianist until his mother died and practical concerns took over. And I've admitted to myself that I'm looking forward to seeing him in a tuxedo far more than any fake girlfriend should.
I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, mascara wand hovering midair. My hand is shaking. Great. Because poking myself in the eye is exactly what I need right now.
Tonight isn't like our casual hangouts at the library or lunch. Tonight, we have to convince a roomful of Adrian's colleagues that we're in love. Professional skeptics, all of them.
I smudge my eyeliner and swear under my breath. This is fine. Everything is fine. Just a fake date with my fake boyfriend to a very real gala with very real people who can't know we're faking.
The doorbell rings exactly at 7:00 PM. Of course. Mr Atomic Clock has arrived.
I slip into the dress, step into heels that make my legs look great but will torture me by midnight, and answer the door.
My brain short-circuits.
Adrian stands in the hallway in a tailored black tuxedo. The crisp white shirt makes his skin glow, the black bow tie sitting perfectly against his throat. The jacket emphasizes his broad shoulders, tapering to a narrow waist. His hair is styled back from his forehead, the hint of silver at his temples catching the light.
Oh no. Oh no no no.
He's always been attractive—I'm not blind—but this is weaponized. This isn't fair.
Adrian's eyes travel slowly from my face down the length of my body, lingering on the way the dress hugs my curves, then back up to meet my gaze. Something flashes in his eyes—something hot that makes my skin tingle.
"You look beautiful," his voice is deeper than usual.
I swallow hard. "You clean up okay, too."
Understatement of the century.
He waits as I grab my clutch and wrap, his eyes never leave me. The walk down the stairs of my building feels like the longest of my life, acutely aware of him behind me, probably looking at my—Oh well, what's a girl to do? I slow down, take deliberate steps, giving my hips every chance to go to work.
Focus, Emmy.
Outside, a black chauffeured car waits at the curb. Adrian opens the door for me, and I slide into the back seat, trying to look graceful despite the tight dress. He walks around to his side, and I watch the way the tuxedo moves with him, fitting him like a second skin.