No Love Allowed(18)

Being alone in the copy room wasn’t so bad. He actually found the process quite Zen, the whir of the copy machine soothing. He might also be becoming addicted to the smell of toner.

His phone rang midway through. He fished it out and put Nathan on speaker so his hands were kept free. He could multitask with the best of them, but he still needed most of his focus on the job or mistakes would be made. Last thing he wanted was the word unacceptable coming out of his father’s mouth.

“Yeah?” he said, turning back to the machine as it spit out the next completed file.

“Busy?” Nathan asked back.

The unmistakable whoosh of wind from the other end gave him pause. “You’re driving.”

“I’m using hands-free.”

“Still,” he insisted. “I’d feel better if you parked before you start talking to me.” He ignored the answering grumble and slapped his palm over the stapler, locking the pieces of paper together. Then he slipped them into a waiting folder. Five sets done. Five more to go. He rolled his shoulders to get the kinks out.

“What was that?” Nathan finally asked. No more wind whooshing from his end of the line.

“I’m in the copy room.”

“Michael messing with you again?”

“I’m tempted to switch out his order again when I go on the dinner run to night.”

A chuckle preceded the admonition. “Take pity on the guy. He has your father for a boss, after all.”

The logic in Nathan’s words hit him where it hurt. “Stop messing with my fun.”

“Remember, it’s just for the summer. Then it’s Europe, baby!”

He held on to the thought with white knuckles. He could already smell the London air. Taste the French macarons. Hear Italian being spoken. He breathed in the warm air mixed with the scent of toner in the copy room. “Thanks. I needed that.”

“So?” Nathan stretched out the question. Caleb understood from the salacious curiosity in his voice where this was headed. “Did she say yes?”





Nine


FEELING GOOD ABOUT her outfit choice that bright Sunday morning, Didi gave the overall look one last mirror check as the short beeps of a car horn signaled Caleb’s arrival. Having chosen to keep her hair down, she flipped the strands over her shoulder and did a quick smile test in case any red lipstick clung to her front teeth. The last thing she wanted was to run out of the house and greet Caleb with a red smear in her mouth. Not attractive at all.

Satisfied and excited to show him what she had come up with for their first event together as a fake couple, she grabbed the cute watermelon clutch she had found at a Goodwill for a dollar from the dresser. Opening it, she placed her house keys, the lipstick she’d used—borrowed from Mom—and a twenty, just in case.

At the third honk, she flitted to the front door with a huge smile and a bounce in her step.

In seconds she was out the front door and locking it behind her. When she turned around her breath caught.

Leaning against the passenger door of his car with his hands in his pockets was Caleb, in an impeccable white linen suit with a butter-yellow shirt opened at the collar. Without product, his hair fell in natural waves—like a dark, wind-tousled halo. He took her breath away, and they both matched: wearing white as if they had discussed it.

Hand to her chest, she checked to see if her heart still worked. Definitely a skip in the beats. She caught herself thinking how lucky she was to have such a mouthwatering fake boyfriend. Oh, this summer had just gotten better . . . until she noticed the scowl that settled on his features.

What the hell was she wearing?

It took all of Caleb’s willpower not to smack his forehead. He’d known he shouldn’t have trusted her with picking out what to wear for the garden party. A white dress, sure, but she had f*cking handprints in places there shouldn’t have been. All the blood in his head traveled elsewhere as he pushed away from the car and charged her.

“Caleb?” She took several steps toward him, then stopped once he reached her. “What’s wrong?”

“What the hell are you wearing?” he almost roared.

As if she hadn’t heard the heat in his tone, she examined the tight thing she called a dress. It had spaghetti straps and an asymmetric hemline that cut so high up one thigh . . . he was no longer thinking with the proper body parts. She had paired it with red canvas flats and a damn watermelon clutch. He breathed out long and hard.

“You don’t like it?”

“We are not going clubbing!” He inhaled, but not enough air entered his burning lungs. He might have been having a mild heart attack. “You have handprints covering your breasts.”

“Oh, these?” She covered her breasts with her hands to show him. “They’re my hands, see? Since I couldn’t wear a bra I thought—”

“Stop!” He raised a hand with the word, then shoved shaking fingers through his hair. “I . . . I can’t. . . .” He swallowed, then dropped his eyes to the ground. “The grass is the safest place to look right now.”

She smiled and grabbed her breasts again, squeezing. “You think I look hot. Is that why you’re as red as these handprints?”

“Jesus.” He cursed under his breath and took a huge step back. “Please, if you have any shred of mercy, stop touching your breasts.”