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)
I part my lips, and he takes the invitation. The kiss becomes consuming, dizzying, completely unexpected. My back hits the wall—when did we move?— how?— and his body presses against mine, solid, warm, and real. Every point of contact burns.
His hand in my hair, his chest against mine, his thigh between my legs—it's overwhelming in the best possible way. My hands slide up his chest, around his neck, fingers tangling in his hair. It's softer than I imagined.
He makes a sound now—low, rough—and time ceases to exist. There's only his mouth, his hands, his body. The way he tastes—coffee and mint. The way he touches me—his hands, those hands, are everywhere, burning my body with each touch. Rough. He touches like he's been thinking about this. The way my body responds—like it's been waiting. Wanting.
Eventually—seconds? minutes? hours?—We break apart, both breathing hard. Our foreheads touch. Neither moves away. My fingers remain tangled in his hair, his hand still cradles my head. Our hearts pound in sync. I can feel his pulse jumping in his throat.
Adrian speaks first, his voice rough treacle. "That should ... that should be convincing."
I can't speak. My lips are swollen, sensitive. I can still taste him. My eyes are not sure where to focus.
Adrian steps back, physically separating us. The immediate loss of warmth is almost painful. His hair is messed up from my hands, his bow tie completely askew, shirt partially untucked. Unbuttoned. He straightens his tie with shaking hands, not meeting my eyes.
"I should go."
"Yeah. Probably." My voice sounds wrecked.
He moves to the door, movements unsteady. He pauses with his hand on the knob, looks back over his shoulder. Something in his expression—want, regret, confusion, all of it.
"Goodnight, Emmy."
"Goodnight, Adrian."
The door closes, and I stand in my living room, fingers pressed to my lips, which are still tingling from his kiss. I lick them, savoring the hint of him still there.
That wasn't practice.
That was—dizzying, yes. But a line has been crossed...a...
I don't let myself finish the thought. If I name it, if I admit what that felt like, everything changes.
The careful lines we've drawn, the boundaries we've set, the clean thirty-day timeline to comply with the Will, plus an extra thirty days to show authenticity. Such a neat endpoint—all of it becomes complicated.
I turn off the string lights and head to my bedroom, trying not to think about the way Adrian's hands felt in my hair. The sound he made against my mouth. How my body fit against his like we were designed to slot together. Two flesh-and-blood puzzle pieces.
Trying not to think about how much I want him to come back. How, if he knocked on my door right now, I'd let him in without hesitation.
Trying, unsuccessfully, to convince myself this is still just pretend.
Because if it's not pretend—if what I felt in that kiss was real—then I'm in serious trouble.
And judging by the way Adrian looked at me before he left, the way his hands shook, the roughness in his voice…
He might be in trouble, too.
===
4
ADRIAN
Iarrive at Emmy's apartment exactly at seven, three days after our practice kiss. Three days of overthinking, overanalyzing, and completely failing to categorize what happened between us.
My attempts to file it away as "necessary preparation" have been unsuccessful. The memory intrudes at inopportune moments—during depositions, partner meetings, and my morning run. I recall the softness of her lips, the small sound she made when I deepened the kiss, how her body felt pressed against mine.
Completely unprofessional thoughts. Unacceptable. Yet they persist.
Our text exchanges since that night have been careful, professional. Neither of us has mentioned what happened. I've maintained the charade that everything is normal, that I haven't replayed that kiss fifty-seven times in my head.
I straighten my tie, adjust my cuffs, and knock.
Emmy opens the door wearing a different dress than the one she texted me a photo of fifteen minutes ago. This is the third outfit she's tried. The emerald green silk drapes perfectly across her curves, the neckline shows just enough collarbone to be elegant without revealing too much. Her hair is half-up in some intricate style I lack the vocabulary to describe, her makeup flawless.
But her hands are shaking.
"I don't know if this dress is right," she looks down, tugging at the fabric. "Too formal? Not formal enough?"
I've never seen her like this—uncertain, genuinely nervous. Emmy, who faces everything with unflinching confidence, who challenged me in my own conference room, is standing before me, biting her lower lip, doubt written across her features.
It does something to me, this vulnerability.
"You look perfect, Emmy."
Her eyes meet mine, searching for truth. I hold her gaze, letting her see I mean it.
She exhales. "Are you sure? Because my mother will notice if I'm underdressed. Or overdressed. Or if my shoes don't match exactly or if—"
"The dress is perfect. Deep green suits you. Brings out the gold in your eyes."