My Big Fat Fake Wedding(28)

I’m not sure if I’m happy or upset about that.

Physically, I’ve wanted to fuck Ross since about the time I knew what sex was. And then he basically tortured me through middle and high school, squashing any crush I’d had on him. Well, most of it, anyway.

What’s that saying? He’s pretty packaging on an ugly inside. Okay, there’s nothing remotely ugly about Ross, except how he can zing me good and embarrass the fuck out of me, and somehow, I still enjoy it and live for that bright smile of his that marks his victory over me. But that speaks more to my weirdness, probably, not his.

He’s always seen me as an annoying little sister, so emotionally, I’d rather go celibate the rest of my life than sleep with Ross Andrews.

And that’s that. Problem, meet solution.

I’m just going to pretend last night never happened. And he’s going to do the same.

“Come on,” Ross says, stepping aside and gesturing toward the door. “We can talk over some breakfast. You’ve probably got a hangover the size of Australia brewing inside your head, and I can see the hamster spinning in his wheel with the lightning-fast speed of your thoughts crossing your face.”

I nod slowly, following a barefoot Ross out of the bedroom and down a hallway. As he walks, he calls out, “Geoffrey, dim the windows to twenty percent, please.”

Oh, no! Is there someone here? A witness to my embarrassment this morning?

Before I can ask if Ross has a butler or something, a masculine computer voice replies, “Of course, Mr. Andrews. Shall I start coffee?”

“Full pot,” Ross says before glancing back over his shoulder with a huge grin. “Geoffrey's the electronic assistant. Basically, Alexa, but a thousand percent better.”

“A thousand . . . percent?” The snarky challenge rolls off my tongue unbidden.

“Give or take a few hundred percent,” Ross quips back, unperturbed at continuing our usual banter in such a weird situation.

I’m at a loss for words as I pad into the main room of the penthouse. It’s huge, semicircular, and slightly tech-modern, with lots of blacks and brushed steel that strike me as Ross’s natural style. Not my personal choices . . . but it fits him.

The curved exterior wall is dominated by huge, two-story-tall windows that are tinted to a dark smoke right now, and the interior designer part of me loves it. High-tech windows that can change at a voice command? Talk about eliminating the need for drapes! I’ve heard of this technology, even saw it at a conference once, but I haven’t had a client who wanted something that high-tech yet. Usually, my clients want their estates updated, like Ms. Montgomery, so high-rise style is out of my wheelhouse, and even hungover, I’m tempted to play with it to see what all Geoffrey and those windows can do.

“When did you get the Starship Enterprise as your penthouse?” I weakly joke as he leads me over to the far side of the room to a high-tech chef’s kitchen. While you couldn’t put a restaurant in here, it’s fully equipped, everything in tasteful matte dark colors and black marble countertops. Ross opens the built-in fridge and pulls out a blender cup, swirling the contents before studying it carefully.

“Cover your ears,” he says right before slapping the cup on a blender base and pulsing it a few seconds. Even with my hands over my ears, it’s painfully loud, but the shock of it is helping to clear my head. When it’s ready, he pulls out a huge glass from a cabinet and pours me a light green smoothie. “Here. My patented hangover cure, just this side of hair of the dog in terms of effectiveness. Drink up.”

He eyes me, daring me to disobey, and when I lift the glass for a sniff, he smiles like he knows he’s already won. Answering my previous question, he says, “I had this place renovated three years ago. If I’d known how good you were going to get with interior design, I’d have hired you.” The compliment warms me inside. I am good, and I know it, as does half of the city’s upper crust, but somehow, Ross saying it so casually is different from those accolades.

He takes the other half of the smoothie mixture and downs most of it, his throat working in a way that has me staring at him with decidedly non-breakfast thoughts in my head, and I have to remind myself to take a sip. I’m worried. Usually, people who drink green smoothies in the morning tend to be those who live on Vitamin Shoppe supplements alone, and I am not that girl. My breakfast usually consists of copious amounts of coffee darker than Satan’s soul and a single small, buttered croissant, just like Nana taught me. But before I know it, the glass is empty.

“Wow . . . this is delicious,” I comment. “What’s in it?”

“Mostly fruit. Apples, cherries . . . a little spinach for the vitamins, and willow bark. It’s a natural aspirin.”

“Willow bark?” I ask, and Ross nods, going over to the far end of the counter. He picks up some papers and taps them carefully into order. “What’s that?”

He doesn’t answer directly but instead takes a roundabout way I’m not used to with him. He’s usually so decisive and direct, but I can feel him hemming and hawing.

“Do you remember asking me to marry you last night?” He stares directly at me with the question.

Flashes of the night come back to me. Talking. Drinks. Dancing.

I swallow, nodding. That part, asking him to be my fake husband, I totally remember now. I remember right up to the dance floor, and then turning around to show him my moves . . . but not much else until this morning. “I remember.”