But he had no business teasing his sister’s adorably serious, strictly off-limits friend. No business at all. He bent his head to catch her gaze. “I’ll sleep on the pullout in the office—without company.”
She chewed on her bottom lip. Another trademark.
“Make you a deal,” Nick said, walking over to grab her keys off the nightstand. “I’ll park your sensible hybrid, and you…finish unpacking.”
“But I need a few more things.”
A few more things? He drew in another long breath and did a recount to twenty. How much stuff did one small woman need?
“Not tonight,” he said. “Tonight we’ve got work to do. The rest can wait until tomorrow.”
She eyed the keys as if considering a quick grab, but he tucked them securely into the front pocket of his suit pants. A smile edged across his face. No way was she diving in there for a set of keys. Not Little Miss Cardigan.
“Dinner, one hour.” He gave her a wink and strode out of the bedroom. “My place.”
Chapter Five
“I am good. But not an angel.”
—Marilyn Monroe
Marianne folded the hemline of her skirt until it looked like an accordion. Precisely one hour had passed since the dinner invitation, and now, freshly showered, totally nervous, and semi-unpacked, she sat on the edge of the king-sized bed. Nick Wright’s king-sized bed.
The other night at Temptation, she’d worn a mask just to work up enough courage to give him a simple happy birthday kiss. Now she was sitting in his one and only bedroom, wondering what it would feel like to roll around with him beneath the soft down covers of his one and only king-sized bed. How had this happened to her?
Happened in the sense that she’d pulled on a slinky dress, climbed into his birthday cake, and agreed to be his fake fiancée. That kind of happened to her. She drew in a breath. Everything was okay. She could handle being here in his souped-up SoHo bachelor pad.#p#分页标题#e#
Here.
Alone.
With Nick.
And her secret.
Her nerves fired on all cylinders. Her inner siren wanted out. Badly, and right now, but she couldn’t just grab Nick by the shirt collar. Is that what Marilyn would do?
No. Marilyn would smooth her skirt, give the bed with its inviting down comforter one final glance, and slip barefoot into the hallway, all breathtaking innocence and sensuality. Much more subtle than the shirt collar grab, Marianne thought, kicking off her shoes.
After all, he was making dinner. Hiding away in the bedroom would be rude. Besides, she was looking to step out from behind her books and glasses and kick it up a notch. Hopefully, she wouldn’t retreat into her shell or have some kind of panic attack. His reputation as a roll-me-hard tonight, don’t-call-tomorrow kind of guy was notorious. Nick wasn’t just stepping out of her shell. Nick was setting her shell on fire. A quick novena and she stepped into the hallway.
Whatever he’d been whipping up in the kitchen smelled fantastic, tangy and sweet. Italian, maybe. Her favorite. Despite the nerves, she was hungry. As a regular at Gristedes’ takeout counter, a home-cooked meal sounded like a dream, and the fact that this particular dinner came with a side dish of sexy made it all the more deliciously dreamy.
As she approached the living room, Marianne’s breath caught in her throat. The oversized windows, high beamed ceilings, and textured white walls were designed to catch the reflection of the city’s lights, and the effect was so romantic, it took her breath away. And scared her to her death. Forty-two nights in this place…with Nick.
Her gaze drifted to the coffee table. A bottle of wine. Softly burning candles. Ed Sheeran’s X album playing on the Bose. Her inner siren started dancing the merengue. Even Marianne knew what X meant. Sex, plain and simple. The correlation between music and intimacy topped most measurable charts, and documented research confirmed a well-curated playlist significantly increased the probability of sex. But there was the no-sex rule, the one her siren wanted to smash to bits, given that she’d not had sex in…well, in a very long time. Still, he couldn’t be playing this music for her.
More likely, the music, the candles, the fake fire in the uber-contemporary fireplace, all of it was habit, typical womanizer moves, nothing to do with her. How could it be when she was the fade-into-the-background New Girl? A girl who normally objected to this kind of seduction-by-the-numbers on principle. But if she planned to use the next six weeks to break open her shell and embrace her sexuality, well, she needed to loosen up. The music helped.
And maybe the wine, too.
As she stood there, debating the merits of a Cabernet indulgence—a glass or two might facilitate the unmasking of the siren—Nick came out of the kitchen holding two plates piled high with food. Her mouth watered. A man who cooked was sexy. As if he needed any extra appeal.