Reluctantly Yours(51)

I look down at my clothing. The silk lounge set, and the matching fuzzy cardigan. I put the sweater on because the temperature of the house with the air conditioning on was cool.

“It was in my closet. Was I not supposed to wear it?”

“I know where you found it, I bought it for you.”

“Thank you. It’s really nice.” I rub the soft sleeve of the sweater.

“I didn’t intend for you to wear it to dinner,” he responds, jaw tight.

“Oh. When am I supposed to wear it?”

“In your room. To bed.”

“So, you bought me something this nice, something I can’t wear out of the house, but also something you don’t want to see me walking around the house in?” I’m so confused. “I saw the price tag on it. I feel like I should wear it every day to get the value out of it.”

Barrett rubs his chin. Those fingers are doing that lip tug again.

“Wear it whenever you want,” Barrett mutters, but a second later his fork clinks against his plate. “You know what? No. If you’re going to make me sit here and have nothing to do but look at you, then that outfit is off limits for dinner. I don’t want to be eating my dinner and have to see you looking like…like…that.”

My hands grip the back of the chair.

“Like what?” I say, ready for a fight.

Barrett stands and any power I felt standing over him is gone. His tall, broad frame towers over me.

“Like I could eat you for dinner,” he says.

Holy shit. That is the last thing I expected him to say. That’s the issue with Barrett, he is impossible to read. While I’m trying to figure him out, he’s like some artificial intelligence that gets smarter and maneuvers around every attempt. His stare is so intense, the green with gold flecks disappearing behind a ring of black. The tension and silence that fills the air is suffocating.

I can’t help myself, I start laughing. Not because any of this is remotely funny, but because that’s my coping mechanism in this awkward, but highly arousing situation. Do I want Barrett to eat me for dinner? My body does. It’s sending out all sorts of signals. My nipples are rock hard against the thin, smooth fabric of my tank and the panties I changed into earlier after a bath…soaking wet. But my brain is a loose cannon, thinking of all the awkward and embarrassing things that could happen if Barrett were to feast on me. So here I am standing in the middle of Barrett’s kitchen, aroused and laughing while his face hardens to stone.

“I’m not laughing at you. I’m laughing with you,” I explain, sounding like a parent consoling a child, which is disturbing in and of itself. Except Barrett isn’t laughing. “That’s not what I meant.” How can I make Barrett understand that inexperience makes me a little skittish when it comes to sex and all that stuff without telling him how inexperienced I am? I’m not a virgin, but sometimes it feels like I might as well be.

The words it’s not you, it’s me threaten to leave my mouth, but I manage to reel them back. Also, Barrett has already pushed his chair in and left, so it doesn’t really matter what I say at this point. After a failed attempt to eat my dinner, which I’ve already ruined with the ice cream, I go to my bedroom.

The calendar on the writing desk indicates I have a little over four more weeks as Barrett’s fake girlfriend. I’m not even halfway through this exhausting agreement, and I don’t know how it could get much worse.

That’s when it hits me.

We’ll be spending the weekend in the Hamptons with Fred and Frankie.

They’ll expect us to stay in the same room.

The same bed.

Fuck.





Barrett





When I arrive to dinner, Chloe is already seated at the table. She’s typing something out on her phone but when she sees me, she moves to place it on the counter. I immediately take notice of the way her shorts hug the curve of her ass. They’re not the skimpy silk ones she wore last night when I made a fool of myself at dinner, so it’s determined it doesn’t matter what Chloe wears, I’m going to be turned on.

I run my hand through my hair, something I’ve been doing a lot of lately and drop into my chair.

“Hi.” Chloe gives me a small smile.

“Listen, Chloe—"

My words are interrupted by the doorbell.

“I’ll get it!” Chloe jumps up excitedly and sprints from the kitchen.

I’m not expecting anyone so I stand and follow her out to the foyer.

Chloe’s already there, door open, talking to a woman.

When Chloe turns around, she’s got a dog in her arms.

“What—”

“Good evening, Mr. St. Clair.” The woman extends her hand out to me. “Jillian Massey from Goldendoodle Foster Program of NYC. Thank you so much for your generous donation at The Top Dog Gala. The proceeds that go to Animal Medical Center also sponsor free vet care for our rescues and the foster program, as you know.”

“No.” I shake my head, looking at the mass of sandy curls in Chloe’s arms. “I didn’t know.”

“Well, let me tell you about Baxter. He’s a neutered, four-year-old, small Standard Goldendoodle. He’s been with us for six weeks. He’s a bit of a lounger. Not as active as some of the other young dogs, but he will play fetch with a tennis ball. I will warn you, while most dogs get anxious about storms, Baxter gets overly so. He’s a cuddler and likes to be near people.”