Page 19 of Playing Pretend

“I’m here as your significant other.” I push from the table and approach her. “I’m going to flirt. I’m going to tease. And I’m definitely going to touch you, Pip. Alot.”

“Are you done?”

I smirk. “I could continue into X-rated territory if you’d like.”

“Don’t,” she growls. “I may have agreed to thischallenge, but there’s no need to continue the charade in private. Which means this room is neutral ground. Once we’re inside these walls, there’s no pretending. We go straight back to being you and me.”

I knew this caveat was coming. It’s logical.

“Okay,” I concede with a shrug.

“And we arenotsharing that bed.” She crosses her arms over her chest, her chin rising as if in victory. “You can sleep on the sofa.”

Not going to happen.

I don’t need to glance at that bright blue, insomnia-inducing two-seater to confirm my torso wouldn’t fit on it, let alone my legs.

“But you just said—in this room, we’re you and me.” I quirk a brow, feigning confusion. “Two best buddies. So why can’t we sleep on opposite sides of a pool-sized bed?”

“Because you sleep naked.”

I huff a laugh. “I packed boxers, Piper. I’m not going to scandalize you with my dick… At least not within these four walls.”

She reaches into her suitcase to throw a blouse at me. “Please don’t use that word.”

I catch the silken material before it hits me in the face. “Do you prefer cock?”

“Gah.” Her eyes plead through the glaze of intoxication. “Stop tormenting me.”

“I can’t help it. I’m having too much fun.” I close the distance between us to pull her in for a familiar hug. Friendly. Casual. But the smile wipes from my face when she stiffens.

She’s usually soft. Welcoming.

We hug all the time. That isn’t new. But her frozen status is.

“Come on, Piper. I know you enjoy a challenge. That’s all this is.”

She sighs. “I don’t like admitting you’ve thrown me off-balance.”

“Why?” I nuzzle my nose into her hair, breathing deep of the magnolia scent. “It’s not like you to underestimate me.”

“And it’s not like you to be so flamboyant in front of a crowd.”

“Flamboyant?”

“Your display tonight wasn’t how you usually act around women. The Rome I know is always standoffish with conquests. Even frosty at times.”

But she’s not a conquest. This thing I’m working toward is on a whole different level. And it’s not like I can act anything but icy with women when she’s around. That frost she’s talking about is because of guilt. Being with someone else has always felt like cheating.

“You’re not just any woman, though,” I say, tongue in cheek despite it being true. “So I need to act accordingly.”

She leans back to meet my gaze. “You’re telling me this is how you’d behave if we were together? That Rome Cavanaugh would suddenly get over his allergy to PDAs and be all touchy-feely?”

Without a doubt.

I wouldn’t be able to keep my hands to myself. “I’m not allergic.”

She takes a retreating step, breaking the hug. “Then what would you call it?”

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