Pretend It's Love(7)

"I don't like your chances." He stepped closer, the breadth of his shoulders dwarfing her. "But I'm happy to play."

"Just make it easy for yourself and call me Libby, okay?" She smiled sweetly and stood her ground.

"Easy, Tiger. I'll play nice." His dark chocolate eyes assessed her,  smoothing her up and down as though committing her proportions to  memory.

His gaze smoldered, so intense her body reacted instantly. The clench of  her sex sent a sharp jolt of arousal through her, pebbling her nipples  and sending warm, throbbing heat through her veins.

Damn him.

"Why don't you come by my place over the weekend and we can do a  ‘getting to know you' catch up." She reached into her purse and pulled  out a business card and a pen, desperate to keep her body focused on  something other than how Paul affected her.

"Done." He smiled, revealing a perfect set of white teeth.

At one point she would have fallen head over heels for a smile like  that, but now she knew better. The gorgeous ones always made you pay  with more than you could afford. They were like credit card debt:  trouble from the beginning and hard to get over. Business, however, was  business, and she intended to make full use of this situation. First  would be the perfect place to launch Libby Gal Cocktails-their write up  in Gastronomy Magazine had been glowing, and that meant interest from  food bloggers and the media.         

     



 

She had to make this work.

"Here's my address, my phone and email are on the front of the card.  Does Sunday afternoon work?" Her intuitive senses tingled. She knew a  good opportunity when she saw it. All she needed now was to convince Des  Chapman to take her on … and make sure she kept her hands off his  brother.





Chapter Four

Libby checked herself out in the mirror for what felt like the hundredth  time that afternoon. She'd put far too much effort into making herself  look as though she hadn't expended any effort at all.

But her curls were artfully mussed, and she'd fiddled with the hem of  her black and white striped shirt until it looked as though she'd thrown  it on without a care. Her faded jeans were frayed in places, though she  doubted Paul would realize they'd been designed that way. All she had  to do now was dab a little red lipstick on and slip her feet into a pair  of ballet flats.

Why are you so worked up? This is a fake relationship remember … it doesn't matter what he thinks of you.

The doorbell sounded as Libby hunted for her second shoe. She found it  sticking out from under the couch in her living room and hopped on one  foot while she slipped it on.

Taking a deep breath, she gathered herself before opening the door.

"I was starting to think you weren't home," Paul said, amusement dancing in his tone. "Were you still getting ready?"

"Getting ready?" She rolled her eyes as though it was the stupidest comment in the world. "I was working."

"Right." His eyes raked over her. "May I come in?"

Heat crawled up her cheeks until she was sure they were the same color  as her shoes. She stepped aside and held the door open. "Of course."

He walked into the living room, affording her the chance to linger on  the way his dark jeans perfectly outlined his legs and butt. He wore a  dark gray T-shirt this time, instead of black. A faint whiff of  aftershave clung to the air around him, something woodsy and masculine.

So he'd put in a little effort, too … or maybe he just woke up looking and smelling like sex personified.

She smiled, forcing the inappropriate thoughts aside. "Welcome to my humble abode."

"I wouldn't call it humble." He turned around, eyes sweeping over her  antique sideboard and the custom coffee table she'd bought in Italy a  few years ago. "It's great."

"Thank you." The compliment warmed her insides.

Do I need to remind you not to care about his opinion?

"Can I get you a drink?" she asked, suddenly needing to keep her hands busy.

He had a vibe that screamed at her to touch him, which would be highly  inappropriate. Especially considering they were about to plot out how to  fool his whole family into thinking they were in love.

"A coffee would be great." He followed her into the kitchen and leaned against the breakfast counter. "Black, no sugar."

"Why doesn't that surprise me?" She reached up onto her tiptoes to fish out an espresso cup from the top shelf.

From the corner of her eye she noticed Paul watching her, his lips  pressed together lightly. Hands jammed into the front pockets of his  jeans, drawing far too much attention to the way the denim molded to  every inch of him … and she was sure there would be plenty of inches.

"I don't drink that syrupy gingerbread latte crap, if that's what you  mean." He grinned. "I think I'd be stripped of my heritage if I did."

"You're Italian, right? I think you mentioned that," she said as though  she hadn't analyzed every single word from their previous conversation.  Setting the espresso cup down next to a pink and gold floral mug, she  smiled. They looked a little ridiculous side by side.

"Half. My ma is Italian but my dad's Australian. What about you? I'm guessing you're English or Irish with all that red hair."

The coffee machine came to life and steam hissed out of the  milk-frothing nozzle. "English, although I believe there is a bit of  Scottish mixed in as well. My grandparents immigrated a few years after  the second world war."

"Good to know." He nodded. "So we should cover the basics. Favorite foods, movies, color … sex positions."

She shot him a reproachful look and held the espresso cup under the  machine's spout. Dark liquid filled the air with a delicious aroma, the  coffee mingling with the tempting scent of his aftershave. Heat coursed  through her, her head spinning.

"I was kidding about the sex positions, although if you want to  enlighten me I'm all ears." A cheeky grin spread over his face, making  his dark eyes sparkle.         

     



 

Yeah, he would have women lining up with that naughtiness. All the  better to remind her why she shouldn't get emotionally involved.

"You've got no chance of that. But I can tell you my favorite color is  green, my favorite movie is Die Hard, and I eat pretty much anything."

"Die Hard." He looked impressed. "The first one?"

"Of course, it's a classic." She handed him the coffee cup and turned  back to the machine to froth milk for her cappuccino. "But I do love the  third one, too. Jeremy Irons is a great villain."

"Did you see the fifth one?"

"Yes, but I pretend that I didn't. In my mind they stopped at three."  She grinned and poured the hot milk into her coffee. "What about you?"

"My favorite color is black."

"Black isn't a color."

"If I can buy a T-shirt in it, it's a color." He took a sip of his  coffee. "Favorite movie is Pulp Fiction and I love Italian food.  Obviously."

"Can you cook?"

"A bit. Not that I need to, I get plied with home-cooked food. My freezer is full of pasta sauce and soup."

"That must be nice." She took a long gulp of her coffee to hide her jealousy.

He nodded, averting his gaze for a moment. "Speaking of my family, you'll get to meet them tonight."

"Tonight?" she squeaked.

"Yeah, we're doing a family dinner. I'm bringing you along to meet them. It'll be a good time to introduce you to everyone."

She rolled her eyes. "Thanks for telling me."

"You're welcome."

"I was being sarcastic! We don't know anything about each other yet."  She grappled for an excuse. "How do you know I'm not busy?"

He cocked his head. "Are you?"

"Well … no." She sighed. "You should have given me more notice."

He shrugged. "It's not a big deal. We were planning to talk through  everything today so at least it will all be fresh in your mind tonight.  Besides, I thought this was what you wanted."

She blew an errant strand of hair out of her eyes with a huff. Getting  her brand into Des's bar was what she wanted, fronting up to his  family … well, that was her end of the bargain. But it made her insides  twist and turn. She wasn't very good when it came to playing happy  family. Still, a promise was a promise.

"Okay, fine. What else do I need to know about you?"

"I don't bring girls home to meet my parents."

"Ever?"

"Once." He swallowed and looked as though he was about to explain, but a  shield seemed to shoot up around him. "You'll be the first one in quite  a while. As I said, I don't do relationships."

"Me, either."

"Really?" He raised a brow. "Why?"

"My parents had a crappy marriage and Dad's now on to wife number four  or five. I tried once to have a relationship." She paused. "It didn't  end well."

"That's a shame."