Page 5 of Daddy's Naughty Author

“That is too bad.”

“Yep. So, rest in peace, my perfect cup.” Linda places a warmed-up blueberry muffin before me and a large meatybreakfast burrito in front of KC. I give her a smile before changing the topic. “Okay, so remind me again why we are pretending to be in a relationship? Because honestly, you've got the stoic hero down pat, but I have a hard time imagining you as the romantic type.”

KC's response is the half-smirk, half-grimace that's becoming his signature look around me. “Well for one, to get my mom off my back. We’re going to have to be very good at this, because she's got a sixth sense for insincerity. She knew we were lying before we opened our mouths as children. I’m not an actor and I am definitely not the creative type, like you are. We can’t have any theatrics; she’ll see right through it. We have to come across as natural."

"Ah, but there's where you're wrong," I counter, leaning back in my seat. "Love is all about theatrics. And if we're going to sell this story, you’ll need to embrace a little drama, soldier."

"Embrace drama," he repeats, as if the words are foreign concepts that require translation. I follow his gaze to the nearby couple sharing a quiet laugh, their hands casually entwined on the table. He studies them and then turns back to me. "Let’s focus on getting our cover story straight first."

"Cover story, right." I flash him a grin that's all mischief. "So, how did we meet? Skydiving? Tango class? Or during a covert op where I saved you with my wicked pen-wielding skills?"

"Let's stick to something simple. Something believable." His eyes roll, but there's a lightness in his tone.

"Believable can still be fun," I argue, enjoying the way this whole charade pulls him out of his comfort zone, if only by an inch. "How about we met at a military gala? You, the decorated hero, and me, the mysterious writer with a knack for uncovering people's secrets."

"Sounds like a spy novel," KC mutters, though the corners of his lips twitch upward ever so slightly. “We could tell the truth,we are neighbors, after all. The thing about the truth is, it’s much easier to remember than a lie.”

The truth? I’ll never forget the day I met him. He was moving in on a cold, icy day and I went to get the mail, hoping to find the test print of my newest release. As I was walking down the sidewalk, I stepped to the side to let him pass and slipped. I’d just about hit the ground when he caught me in his arms. I’d brought him cookies the next day to thank him for not letting me break my tailbone. Cookies I’d bought from a local bakery and put into a Tupperware container, but cookies nevertheless.

"We could tell the truth," I say before we continue the conversation. The banter feels natural, easy—like it's just another scene from one of my books.

"And," KC says, "We should probably outline some ground rules for public displays of affection. Can't have you mentally undressing me every time I flex." The wink he gives me lets me know he’s joking.

"Please, like your biceps have that kind of power over me," I scoff, but my heart thumps a traitorous beat in my chest. Who knew fake-dating a man carved from military-grade discipline could be such a thrill?

"Keep telling yourself that," KC teases, flexing his pecs, and I realize with a start, that maybe he's better at this game than I gave him credit for.

“I wouldn’t worry about public displays of affection. You're about as cuddly as a cactus."

His dark eyes glint with the challenge I’ve thrown down. "You'd be surprised," he says, the corners of his lips quirking up in a way that suggests he's not entirely out of his depth.

"Show me then," I tease, expecting him to maybe reach out across the table for my hand. Instead, he gets up from his seat and slides in next to me. His arm loops around my waist, and he pulls me into his side with ease. He reaches over and graspsmy chin in his hand and raises it so I’m staring into his eyes and brings his face down until it’s almost touching mine.

“Like this?”

I'm momentarily frozen. A shiver runs down my spine. In the romance novels I write, this is where the heroine melts into the hero's embrace, her heart pounding, her body softening. But this isn't one of my books, and I'm not some swooning damsel—I'm Rebekah Johnson, who keeps both feet planted firmly in reality.

Except, reality just got a little hazy. There's something disarmingly real about the solid presence of KC beside me. He's nothing like the dominant alpha males I create in my stories—men whose every action is crafted for maximum seduction. KC is just...KC. Disciplined, stoic, and now, apparently, capable of throwing me off balance with a simple touch.

“What were you saying about a cactus?” he murmurs, the rumble of his voice vibrating through me.

“Okay, maybe you aren’t super prickly," I manage to reply, though my heartbeat seems to have forgotten the steady rhythm it's supposed to maintain. It's bizarre; here I am, a woman who writes chapters filled with passion daily, yet the authenticity of this single, unfabricated moment has my insides doing somersaults.

"Good," he says, dropping my chin and removing his arm from around my waist, leaving a curious sense of loss in its wake. I straighten up, mentally shaking off the surprise attack on my composure.

"Very convincing," I concede with a grin that I hope looks more self-assured than I feel. "Who knew Mr. Military had a secret arsenal of charm?"

"Only for special occasions," he replies, returning to his side of the table and settling back into his chair with the same fluid motion that always seems to accompany his movements.

"Special occasions, huh? Well, I’m honored," I say, still grinning but silently contemplating the chemistry sparking between us. It's uncharted territory, and I'm intrigued. Maybe pretending to be KC’s fake girlfriend won’t be half bad.

CHAPTER 3

Today is the day.

For the last week, I’ve spoken to KC on the phone multiple times a day, getting our stories straight for the big dupe coming up. I’m surprised by how much I enjoy our conversations, how easy they feel, and how many times he’s made me laugh with that deep, rumbly voice of his. I can’t deny the chemistry between us. At least, I feel it. We haven’t talked about it, but I can’t ignore the way I feel around him. We’d prepared for today, going as far as to send each other couple quizzes we’d found on the internet and playing more than one corporate type of ice breaker game. I know all of his favorite things. Color. Food. Animal. All the things. We played Would You Rather late into the night. After every phone call, I felt more confident about my role in all of this.

Now, as we walk up to the restaurant inside of the fancy hotel we’re meeting KC’s mom, my stomach does this ridiculous little flip. My confidence is faltering.

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