Plan B (Best Laid Plans #2)(10)

One tiny decision that set off a bombshell of life changes. What if I'd just gone home? What if I'd turned and run the opposite direction when I caught sight of him, instead of waiting long enough for his gaze to find mine? It made me dizzy, his eyes, his attention. Him. Have you ever met a man like that?

You know the feeling. The butterflies, the energy. The weird cosmic sense that he must be feeling the same, that the amount of energy swirling in your belly and the quickening of your heart can't be one-sided.

I was on my way to Fenway Park. I didn't have any particular interest in baseball, but it seemed like attending a Red Sox game at Fenway was a life event worth experiencing and I had a summer day free for exploring. He was checking his watch when I caught sight of him, gorgeous and impatient standing on a sidewalk outside the coffee shop I'd just left. He was in a grey T-shirt and cargo shorts, casual. The shirt looked soft and well-worn-in, the kind you'd steal from your boyfriend because the cotton would have the same effect as rubbing a kitten against your bare skin. He filled out the shirt nicely, and the shorts hung just so over a flat stomach and narrow hips.

Just my type.

When he caught me looking at him he smiled and I implored myself to walk away even as I stepped closer. I was a bit turned around and it wouldn't hurt to ask him if he could point me in the right direction to the stadium, would it?

I didn't need a fling in a city that wasn't my own. I didn't need a fling at all. I was doing so well on the dick diet and this guy was the cover model to a novel called The Problem With Men Who Give Mind-Blowing Orgasms.

I stepped closer.

I asked him if he knew how to get to the stadium.

"Mr. Kingston," a voice beside me interrupted, "the car is ready."

"I'll give you a ride," he said, not taking his eyes off mine. "I'm headed there myself."

As if. I'd seen every serial killer special on Netflix and I didn't even know his name. I didn't need a ride in the back of a town car, I needed to be pointed in the right direction. Which was exactly what I told him. He smiled, a look of genuine surprise at my refusal crossing his face.

"Kyle," he said, holding out his hand in formal introduction. A grin still tugged at the corner of his mouth, a dimple flashing in his left cheek.

"Daisy," I replied and slipped my hand into his.

By the time we reached Fenway I reminded myself that even the strictest of diets allow for a cheat day every once in a while.





"We met Daisy," Kerrigan says, pulling away from Kyle and glancing in my direction with an excited smile. Oh, God. Don't say it, don't say—"I can't believe you didn't tell me you were engaged!"

Okay, so that's out. But Kyle doesn't so much as blink, which tells me that he's already heard our happy news. Damn, Margo works fast. If I was planning on sticking around I might find her interest in Kyle upsetting but I'm not, so I don't. Hardly at all.

Just a little. I really hate that troll.

"It's a recent development," Kyle responds, eyes still not leaving mine. He plucks one of the glasses of champagne from my hands, taking a sip before continuing. "So recent, it's almost as if you knew before I did. I promise."

I blush, the weight of my embarrassment nearly enough to crush me. This is really not how I saw this playing out.

"Well, no wonder you let me spend the summer in Europe. You were busy falling in love with Daisy." If Kerrigan were a Disney character she'd be Thumper. Her tiny body is practically vibrating in her excitement, she is hopelessly twitterpated by the very idea of love.

She's going to be so disappointed when this fake engagement ends.

Kyle winds the fingers of his free hand in mine, pulling me to his side in a move that looks romantic, as if he can't have me close enough. I know it's not though, a fact confirmed when he leans in, his lips brushing the shell of my ear as if to whisper sweet nothings to me. Or dirty propositions. Or best, something like "I'm so glad you found me."

He doesn't say any of those things, of course.

"What in the hell are you doing?" is what he says, the words soft, the inflection anything but. The warmth of his breath teases my earlobe and I shiver in response. My emotions are all over the place, my body confused by the conflicting feelings pinging around in my brain. Relief at finding him so I can get this conversation over with. Aggravation that I'm in this position to begin with. Chagrin at how far out of control this has spun.

And desire. It's still there, as strong as the first time I saw him. Some weird, chemical, magnetic response to him, even now. Desire is weird. Illogical, stupid even. Fuck Kyle. Fuck him and the dimple in his left cheek. Fuck his deep blue eyes and perfect jawline and head of non-tousled hair. A head of hair that I know is thick because I've had my hands in it. A dimple I've seen because it was flashed at me when he unsnapped my bra. Lips that kissed me like he cared.

I exhale, the guilty reminder that I claimed to be his fiancée in order to break into his grandfather's retirement party loud and clear in my head. I turn my head a fraction, my body pressed against his, and press onto my tiptoes so I can whisper in his ear as he did mine.

"I need to talk to you," I murmur, my lips so close to his ear it may look more like a caress than a whisper to anyone watching.

"Kissing on the lips not included in your pre-nup then?" Wyatt mutters, because he's most definitely watching.