Page 36 of An American in London

We stand opposite each other, and I shift my weight from one leg to the other.

“This is hopelessly awkward. Engaged couples aren’t this ... uncoordinated.” I hold out my hand as if I’m going to shake his. “Take my hand. We haven’t even—”

He slides his hand into mine. I lift my gaze as his warm palm envelops mine, his fingers tangling around my wrist. I hold up my free palm. “Your hands arehuge.”

He releases my hand and puts his palm to mine. I look like I’m Alice in Wonderland and just took the Drink Me potion. I breathe in his musky scent that reminds me of an open fire and toasted marshmallows.

He brings his other hand up, moving the wisps of hair around my face, winding them around my ear.

“Yeah,” I breathe out, a little dizzy. “We need to be comfortable being physical with each other.”

He releases my hand, and I catch his wrist and place his hand on my hip. “Like this.” I look up to him, and his eyes are wide, following my every move. “Now, you putmyhand where—”

He takes my hand in his and places it on his chest, over his heart.

My fingers press against his solid pectoral muscles, and I pull in a breath. “Yes. Good.” I reach for his other hand and place it on my other hip. His hands are firm and hold me in place. I wrap a hand around the back of his neck, rising up to my tiptoes and pressing against him for balance.

He pulls me even closer, his hands sliding around my waist and up my back. Every part of me is throbbing. My head, my heart, between my legs.

I’m needy for more of him.

His gaze flits between my eyes and my mouth. There’s a deep ache in the core of me, echoing, begging to be soothed.

He leans forward and I lift my chin, ready to sink into his kiss, but his kiss doesn’t make it to my lips. Instead, he presses his lips to my forehead. I can’t help but wonder if he’s ever done that to any of the women he’s not-dated before.

He doesn’t move away quickly. We stand, pressed against each other, so close I can feel the pulse under his skin. He takes his lips from my forehead and then dips his head down until our cheeks graze one another. I feel his breath on my skin. My body is buzzing and I sweep my hands over his shoulders.

This time, he presses a kiss on my cheek. So chaste but soanything butchaste. I want him to strip me naked, spin me around, and bend me over the kitchen counter.

When my fingers find the back of his neck, he groans, then quickly steps away. I miss his warmth immediately.

“Maybe that’s where our preparation should end for tonight,” he says.

The distance between us helps me regain my composure. I remember which way is up, where I am, and what I’m doing.

This isn’t real.

I fold my arms, trying to cover my body, not wanting to give away how much I’m drawn to him. As much as part of me might want to, I don’t ask him if he’s serving cake for dessert.

Chapter Thirteen

For days, I’ve been poring over the spreadsheets and graphs that relate to Ben’s investments at the bank. It’s not the first time I’ve done work like this, but it’s the first time I’ve done the work for someone whose house I’ve visited, and definitely the first time I’ve worked on an account for someone I’m going to spend the weekend with while pretending to be his fiancée.

It probably shouldn’t, but it makes a difference to know the person who will be on the receiving end of all the data. I’ve seen Ben barefoot in his kitchen, and apparently, that impacts how I look at a spreadsheet. I really want to do a good job for a thousand reasons. Obviously I want Mr. Jenkins to be happy with the job I’m doing, as he holds my career in his hands. I also want Ben to keep his investments at the bank because we’re good at what we do—not merely because he’s got history with “James.” And not only because it’s part of the deal he’s made with me.

So far, I’ve spotted a few minor errors in the data, which probably would have been picked up at some point anyway. But Mr. Jenkins wants me there as a safety net, coordinating departments and making sure everything runs smoothly. And he’s the boss, so he gets to decide how I spend my time.

As part of Ben’s annual health check, Mr. Jenkins wants to pitch him a real estate investment in South America the bank is handling. Apparently an entire city is being developed, including homes and retail units, leisure facilities, schools, and businesses. It’s tipped to havetremendous upside for those investing in the early stages, and the only way UK investors can get in on the investment is if they go through the bank. Mr. Jenkins wants me to put together a proposal that’s personalized to Ben.

It would be a huge coup if Ben extended his investments beyond UK assets. It would be the cherry on the cake if he chose to invest more because he thought the bank was the right place to put his money, and not because I’d agreed to pretend to be his fiancée.

“I just want to pop to the loo,” Gail says from where she sits opposite me. “But James usually comes out right around now, wanting a coffee. Can you tell him I’ll bring one in for him?”

“Of course,” I say. I can do even better than that. I’ll make his coffee myself right now, anticipating his needs. I know Mr. Jenkins likes his coffee black and hot, because I’ve been paying attention to how Gail has been making his drink from day one. I’ll make one now, and if he comes out of his office while Gail is in the restroom, I can give it to him right away. If he doesn’t, I can drink it—albeit after adding in a gallon of milk.

I round my desk and head to the small kitchen at the end of the corridor. I work quickly to put the coffee machine on, then take a step back and lean out of the kitchen so I can keep an eye on Mr. Jenkins’s office door. The machine grunts and complains but finally spits out some coffee into the white cup and saucer I’ve noticed Gail always uses for his coffee.

Some bosses are laid-back about everything that doesn’t matter—Mr. Jenkins is not one of those bosses. He seems to care about everything. He likes his trash can emptied twice a day. He doesn’t take any calls directly, and he likes everyone who works for him in the office before he is. He’s a boss who would have thrived in the fifties. In fact, I’m surprised he doesn’t slap Gail on the ass every morning when he passes her desk while smoking a cigarette.

---