My Big Fat Fake Wedding(41)

What was supposed to be an hour’s work tops stretches out to nearly one in the morning before we take the elevator up to Ross’s—I mean, our—penthouse.

The elevator dings and the door opens, and my heart starts racing against my will. This is real. I’m moving in with Ross Andrews right now.

He picks up my heaviest suitcase from the floor and leads me to the living area, carrying the bag like it’s nothing. “You know, you could have just packed an overnight bag.”

“That was kind of the plan at first,” I reply, following with my two rolling bags. “We can unpack it all tomorrow, though. I’m beat and have an early morning tomorrow.”

“Early tomorrow? It’s Sunday. Isn’t that a day of rest, even for the wicked?” Ross questions me, the implication of my wickedness apparently both an insult and a compliment if I’m correctly decoding the twinkle in his eyes.

I force my shoulders back, challenging him. “Well, normally, yes. But since I’m moving with absolutely zero notice and you rushed me to get my butt in gear tonight, I figured I’d go back for the rest of what I need tomorrow after I unpack this stuff. I want to get this all done before Monday when I’m back in the office.”

See? Reasonable reasons I can’t just laze around the house all day tomorrow with a loungewear-clothed Ross.

Oh, God! I bet he wears grey sweatpants and nothing else when he’s sitting around. He’s definitely the type to do that.

And again, my girly bits try to tell me that’s not so bad. But it is. So bad . . . so, so very bad.

“All right, then. If we’re getting up early, I guess we’d better call it a night.” He disappears down the hallway with two of my bags, assuming I’ll follow him along like a dog. I root my feet to the floor and call after him.

“Where are you taking my things? Guest bedroom?” I cross my fingers on both hands and wish I could cross my toes, but they’re too short and stubby to do that.

I hear his answer, but it’s too mumbled to figure out what he said. Steeling my nerves, I decide this isn’t the battle to die on and trace his steps down the hall . . . to his bedroom.

He’s already in the walk-in closet, setting my bag along the back wall. He turns, taking the one remaining bag from my hand. “Why are you putting my stuff here? Don’t you have a guest bedroom?”

He rolls his eyes. “Of course I do. But I also have a family who questions the validity of this relationship, and each of them has a key to the front door. If you think Courtney isn’t going to ‘pop by’ within twenty-four hours of finding out we’re living together to check the status of my closet and where your toothbrush is, you’re an idiot. And I know for a fact that you’re not.”

Huh, that was almost a compliment. I guess we’re making progress. I walk back out to the bedroom and he follows me this time.

“Okay, I concede that Courtney is nosy as fuck and will definitely do some spying, but I think we need some ground rules for this to work.”

Ross opens his hands wide. ‘Ladies first,’ he seems to be saying.

“I’m not sleeping with you,’ I blurt out. Ross’s eyebrows jump up his forehead. “No, I mean literally . . . I’m not sleeping in the same bed with you.” I pause, “And also, I’m not sleeping with you.”

His lips spread wide, showing off that cocky smirk. “Funny that as far as ground rules go, the first thing to come to your mind is fucking me. Maybe you still have a little bit of that crush after all?”

“No.” I can feel the embarrassment burning bright and hot in my belly because I know he caught me. He’s right, one hundred percent. There might be a spark of that crush left, but it’s buried under years of experience with players like Ross, both my own and my friends’, and I won’t make that mistake.

“Counter. I’m sleeping in my bed because it’s my bed. If you choose to sleep on the couch over there” —he points across the room to a tufted leather sofa— “that’s your choice. Personally, couch sleeping for months on end wouldn’t appeal to me much when there’s a perfectly good bed right there.”

I look from the couch to the bed to Ross. His face is straight as can be, no hint of a bluff, and I realize this is his business face. Because this is a business negotiation.

The silence draws out, tense on my part and apparently cool as a cucumber on Ross’s part. Seriously, sleeping next to this man, again? How am I supposed to get any sleep at all when half the time I’m in his presence, my ovaries seem to be dancing to Mi Gente on repeat?

I roll my eyes. “Fine. We can sleep in the same bed. Probably better if anyone asks questions about your snoring, anyway. But you’d better stay on your side. No midnight snuggles or morning wood grinding.” I make circles in the air around my butt, indicating that no part of him should be touching me while we sleep.

He dips his chin in agreement. “To your second point, we are going to be married, Vi. And no wife of mine, fake or real, is going to cheat on me. Nor am I a cheater. So for the duration of this arrangement, we will not date other people or fuck other people.”

“Agree,” I say easily because neither of us wants to be made a fool of by the paparazzi catching us with someone else. That’d ruin the whole arrangement and definitely leave us unable to end this gracefully.