* *
Being engaged was nothing like Roz imagined. Of course she’d spent zero time daydreaming about such a thing happening to her. But her friend Lora had been engaged for about six months, which had been a whirlwind of invitations and dress fittings. Until the day she’d walked in on her fiancé and a naked barista who was foaming the jackass’s latte in Lora’s bed. Roz and Lora still didn’t hit a coffee place within four blocks of the one where the wedding-wrecker worked.
Roz’s own engagement had a lot fewer highs and lows in the emotion department and a lot less chaos. For about three days. The morning of the fourth day, Hendrix texted her that he was coming by, and since there’d been no question in that statement, she sighed and put on clothes, wishing in vain for a do-over that included not flying to Vegas in the first place. Or maybe she should wish that she and Lora had gone to any other club besides the Calypso Room that night.
Oh, better yet, she could pretend Hendrix didn’t do it for her in a hundred scandalous ways.
That was the real reason this engagement/marriage/partnership shouldn’t have happened. But how could she turn down Helene Harris in a clown outfit? No hospital would bar the woman from the door and thus Clown-Around would get a much-needed lift, Roz’s reputation notwithstanding. It was instant publicity for the gubernatorial candidate and the fledgling charity in one shot, which was a huge win. And she didn’t have to actually ask her father to use his influence, which he probably wouldn’t do anyway.
Plus, and she’d die before she’d admit this to Hendrix, there had to be something about being in the sphere of Helene Harris that Roz’s father would find satisfactory. He was so disappointed about the photographs. If nothing else, marrying the man in them lent a bit of respectability to the situation, right? Now Roz just had to tell her father about the getting married part. But first she had to admit to herself that she’d actually agreed to this insanity.
Thus far it had been easy to stick her head in the sand. But when Hendrix buzzed her to gain access to the elevator, she couldn’t play ostrich any longer.
“Well, if it isn’t my beloved,” he drawled when she opened the door.
God, could the man look like a slouch in something? He wore the hell out of a suit regardless of the color or cut. But today he’d opted for a pair of worn jeans that hugged his hips and a soft T-shirt that brazenly advertised the drool-worthy build underneath. He might as well be naked for all that ensemble left to the imagination.
“Your beloved doesn’t sit around and wait for you to show up on a Saturday,” she informed him grumpily. “What if I had plans?”
“You do have plans,” he returned, his grin far too easy. “With me. All of your plans are with me for the next six weeks, because weddings do not magically throw themselves together.”
She crossed her arms and leaned against the doorjamb in a blatant message—you’re not coming in and I’m not budging, so... “They do if you hire a wedding planner. Which you should. I have absolutely no opinion about flowers or venues.”
That was no lie. But she wanted to spend time with Hendrix even less than she wanted to pick out flowers. She could literally feel her will dissolving as she stood there soaking in the carnal vibe wafting from him like an invisible aphrodisiac.
“Oh, come on. It’ll be fun.”
The way his hazel eyes lit up as he coaxed her should be illegal. Or maybe her reaction should be. How did he put such a warm little curl in her core with nothing more than a glance? It was ridiculous. “Your idea of fun and mine are worlds apart.”
A slow, lethal smile joined his vibrant gaze and it pretty much reduced her to a quivering mess of girl parts inside. All the more reason to stay far away from him until the wedding.
“Seems like we had a pretty similar idea of fun one night not too long ago.”
Memories crashed through her mind, her body, her soul. The way he’d made her feel, the wicked press of his mouth against every intimate hollow an unprecedented experience. It was too much for a Saturday morning after she’d signed up to become Mrs. Hendrix Harris.
“I asked you not to kiss me again,” she reminded him primly but it probably sounded as desperate to him as it did to her.
She could not get sucked into his orbit. As it was, she fantasized about that kiss against her desk at odd times—while in the shower, brushing her teeth, eating breakfast, watching TV, walking, breathing. Sure it was prudent to avoid any more scandals but that was just window dressing. This was a partnership she needed to take seriously, and she had no good defenses against Hendrix Harris.
He was temporary. Like all things. She couldn’t get invested, emotionally or physically, and one would surely lead to the other. The pain of losing someone she cared about was too much and she would never let that happen again—which was the sole reason she liked sex of the one-night stand variety. What she’d do when that wasn’t an option, like after she said I do, she had no clue.
“Wow. Who said anything about kissing?” He waggled his brows. “We were talking about the definition of fun. That kiss must have gotten you going something fierce if you’re still hung up on it.”
She rolled her eyes to hide the guilt that might or might not be shuffling through her expression. “Why are you here?”
“We’re engaged. Engaged people hang out, or didn’t you get the memo?”
“We’re not people. Nor is our engagement typical. No memos required to get us to the...insert whatever venue we’re using to get hitched here. Until then, I don’t really feel the need to spend time together.” She accompanied that pitiful excuse of his with crooked fingers in air quotes.
“Well, I beg to differ,” he drawled, the North Carolina in his voice sliding through her veins like fine brandy. “This partnership needs publicity or there’s no point to it. We need to be seen together. A lot. When people think of you, they need to think of me. We’re like the peanut butter and jelly of the Raleigh social scene.”
“That’s a nice analogy,” she said with a snort so she didn’t laugh or smile. That would only encourage him to keep being adorable. “Which one am I?”
“You choose,” he suggested magnanimously and that’s when she realized she was having fun. How dare he charm her out of her bad mood?
But it was too late, dang it. That was the problem. She genuinely liked Hendrix or she wouldn’t have left the Calypso Room with him.
“I suppose you want to come in.” She jerked her head toward the interior of her loft that had been two condos until she bought both and hired a crew of hard hats to meld the space into one. They should probably discuss living arrangements at some point because she was not giving up this condo under any circumstances.
“I want you to come out,” he countered and caught her hand, tugging on it until she cleared the threshold on the wrong side of the door. “We can’t be seen together in your condo and besides, there are no people walking past the window. No photographers in the bushes. I could slip a couple of buttons free on this shirt of yours and explore what I uncover with my tongue and no one would know.”
He accompanied that suggestion with a slow slide of his fingertip along the ridge of buttons in question, oh so casually, as if the skin under it hadn’t just exploded with goose bumps.
“But
