Page 75 of Forty, Flirty & Fake-ly Yours

His dark brows fold together on his gorgeous face. “In there. With Joel.”

"It's fine.”

"It's not fine." He keeps marching forward, radiating barely contained fury.

"Grayson—"

"I mean it, Rosalind." His hands flex at his sides like he's physically restraining himself from storming back inside. "I watched that smug bastard corner you, watched your whole body language change—" He breaks off, jaw clenching. "Tell me what he said."

When I hesitate, he steps closer, framing my face with hands that gentle instantly despite the anger still scorched into his expression. “Come on. I need to know what he said to make you look like that."

"Like what?"

"Like someone just questioned everything you believe in." His hand finds my shoulder, warm through vintage silk. "I know that look. I used to see it in the mirror after Jessica."

The honesty in his voice makes my carefully constructed walls crack. "He said I'm finally being sensible. Finally understanding that love is just another business transaction." The laugh I give comes out shaky. "That I'm dating you because your algorithms can compensate for my poor judgment."

Grayson’s whiskey-brown gaze grows even more heated. “There’s not a fucking algorithm in this world that could calculate exactly how wrong that bastard is.”

It’s a rare flare of anger from my even-tempered CEO. But I hate to admit: the fire in his voice puts a pulse between my legs.

I lick my suddenly dry bottom lip.

“Is that true?” I turn to face him, pulse pounding, my heart now dancing on my tongue. "Because lately I can't calculate anything. Can't predict or plan or... breathe properly, “ I pause, “when you look at me like that."

He blinks. “Like what?"

"Like you're seeing past all my safeguards. Like maybe you're tired of pretending too."

"Rosalind." Just my name, but the way he says it makes my pulse race. "I haven't been pretending since that night in the cabin. Maybe even before that."

"The coat closet?" I manage.

"The wine stain." His other hand cups my face. "The moment you broke every pattern I thought I understood."

Then he's kissing me, his body pressing mine against the pillar as my hands find his hair, messing up his perfect appearance in a way that feels symbolically important.

He makes a sound against my mouth that short-circuits my brain as his hands slide lower, lifting me slightly. I wrap my legs around his waist as he trails kisses down my neck, and suddenly all those careful boundaries seem very far away.

"Wait," I gasp as his teeth graze my collarbone. "Someone could?—"

"Let them." But he gentles his touch, pressing softer kisses along my jaw. "Though if you want to stop..."

I answer by pulling him back to my mouth, kissing him like I'm done pretending this is anything but real.

His hands find the zip of my dress just as the rooftop door bursts open.

"Gray?" Douglas Franklin's voice carries across the garden. "The tech reporters are asking for a few photos with you and— oh!"

We spring apart like startled teenagers, though I suspect our appearance leaves little doubt about what we've been doing. My dress is askew, Grayson's perfect hair thoroughly messed up, and we're both breathing like we've run a marathon.

"I'll just..." Douglas clears his throat. "Tell them you'll be down shortly. Though you might want to..." He gestures at our general dishevelment.

The door closes behind him, leaving us in charged silence.

After a few seconds, I decide to speak.

“I think I might want to…”

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