Page 61 of Forty, Flirty & Fake-ly Yours

I can feel the the hardness of his muscles, the evidence of his desire pressing against me. I can feel the heat of his touch, the roughness of his skin, the gentle pressure of his fingers.

And each of them turns me into mush.

With Grayson, I am no longer a functional human being.

Just a body—pulsing. Hot. And wet, beyond belief.

Suddenly, he steps back. I can see the desire in his gaze, the hunger, the need. But I can also see the conflict, the hesitation, the question.

"Rosalind," he starts, his voice rough, unsteady. "We should... We should stop."

I nod.

Because he's right. We should stop. This is unprofessional. This is inefficient. This is...

Complicated.

I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself.

And as if on cue, the real world comes buzzing in with the force of a statistical anomaly. My phone vibrates in my dress’s hip pocket.

Probably Olivia with more updates about chakra-aligned baking techniques, or Douglas Franklin with publicity requirements, or any number of reminders that this isn't real.

Can't be real.

"I should..." I back towards the bedroom door, stepping away. Away from the warmth of him, the scent of his cologne, the way he's looking at me like I'm a variable he can't quite solve.

"Goodnight, Grayson," I manage.

I slip into my room, closing the door behind me. I lean against it, one long breath releasing from my lungs, my skin still tingling from my fake boyfriend’s touch.

17

MATCHING MALFUNCTION

Mountain Cabin,Outside Seattle, WA

GRAYSON

Technically, eight days until Valentine's Day, and I'm lying awake at 2 AM calculating the numerical probability of getting any sleep while knowing Rosalind is just down the hall.

The cabin's emergency generators hum steadily, mixing with the storm's white noise to create a soundtrack for insomnia. Every time I close my eyes, I remember how she felt pressed against me, the soft sound she made when I kissed her, the way her hair slipped through my fingers...

"This is statistically inefficient," I inform my ceiling, then immediately wince at falling back on data-speak.

The fire needs checking anyway. At least, that's what I tell myself as I head to the great room, definitely not hoping to run into anyone else who might also be having trouble sleeping.

I'm halfway there when I spot warm light spilling from the kitchen. For a moment, I consider the professional thing to do.

Return to my room. Maintain appropriate boundaries> Create an algorithm for optimal sleep patterns...

Then I see her.

Rosalind stands at the counter in what appears to be stolen hotel pajamas, her auburn hair loose around her shoulders as she stirs something that smells like cider. The cabin's emergency lighting casts everything in soft gold, making her look like something from a dream I shouldn’t even be having.

"Can't sleep either?" she asks without turning.

"Sleep is statistically unlikely given current variables." I pause in the doorway, suddenly very aware that I'm wearing nothing but flannel pants and an old Stanford t-shirt. "Though apparently I'm not the only one experiencing optimization issues."

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