Page 19 of Better Not Pout
“Shut up. My friend Kennedy and I had a few glasses of wine, and she had this stupid idea to write Santa letters, so I played along with it. But somehow, despite the fact that we dropped them into the mailbox that same night, they are currently missing. You just so happened to be moving in next door when the letter thief struck. I simply put two and two together.”
Wells chuckles. “Ah, so that’s why you accused me of stealing the mail and hated me on the spot. Got it.”
“I didn’t… hate you. Because of that. Obviously, I realized it was a stretch to accuse you. No, it’s because you were a dick, and you love antagonizing me just so I’ll be mad at you.”
His shoulder dips, eyes burning bright before he says, “At least I’m honest. You’re sexy when I’m driving you nuts.”
My stomach does a series of somersaults, and in averyrare occurrence, I’m at a loss for words.
eight
. . .
Wells
Christmas… With Complications
Truth be told,I’m not sure what’s more attractive about Rosalie Sullivan. Her quick wit, that smart little mouth, or the fact that she takes not a single ounce of my shit.
No matter how much I give her.
The combination of all three has my dick stirring behind my pants.
She’s not at all what I expected, and the more I learn about her, the more surprised I am.
“Okay, so back to getting our story straight. We’ll tell my family we met when I started working on Well + Good. You’re right next door, so it makes sense. Easy and believable. Also nottechnicallya lie.”
“True. Yeah, you’re right, that makes it easy,” she says as she reaches for the tumbler of amber bourbon in front of her and brings it to her mouth.
I brought out my favorite bourbon, and I’ve barely taken a sip because I’ve been too caught up in watching her enjoy it. It’s an experience, observing Rosalie. Cataloging everything just in case I need it for later. My gaze follows the path as she takes a slow, unhurried sip and then drags the tip of her tongue along her bottom lip to catch the droplet left behind.
Fuck.
I can’t seem to stop staring at her mouth. The sensual curve of pink, dainty yet full, slightly upturned.
When she catches me staring, she says, “What? Is there something on my face?” Her eyes have gone wide. She sets the glass back down onto the counter and swipes along the corner of her lip with the pad of her thumb.
“No, sorry.” I clear my throat before I do something fucking stupid like tell her I was just fantasizing about her lips when I absolutely should not be thinking about anything outside of her being my pretend, verytemporarygirlfriend. I fully realize how much of a complication my attraction to her is, but I tamp it down, focusing on anything but.
Swiping my glass from the table, I take a quick swallow of my bourbon before I look back at her. “Alright, we met while I was working on the bar. How long have we been dating?”
“Well, you’ve only been in town for a bit. So it can’t be that long? Which actually helps us because we’re still in the early stages of our fictional relationship. Let’s just say… shortly after you moved to town. Not too specific. Leaves it more vague. Sounds long enough that it makes sense that I’m meeting your family, but also not too long to where we’re past the honeymoon stage. We’re still learning about each other.”
I nod. “Sounds good. Alright, so you’re going to have to give me the full Rosalie Sullivan rundown. Tell me everything. Things your boyfriend would know about you.”
She blows out a sigh, fingers tangling together in front of her as she stares over at me. I can practically see the wheels turning behind her bright brown eyes. “This feels like speed dating. My best friend, Kennedy, would love it. Speaking of, would it be okay if I tell her about this? She won’t tell anyone.”
“Yeah. I’ll probably tell Collin. But anyone else… Maybe your grandparents?”
“Oh God,” she mutters before chewing the corner of her lip as she wrings her hands together. “I don’t know. This is happening so quickly, I’ve hardly even had time to think about what that actually is going to really mean. I don’t like lying to Grams and Gramps, but somehow, telling them the truth feels even more… weird?”
I lean back against the barstool with a nod. “Okay, so just Collin and Kennedy.”
“Yes. And honestly, I don’t know if I trust my grandparents not to accidentally tell someone,” she says.
Fair. My mother couldn’t keep a secret about something like this if her life depended on it.
After a few minutes of game planning our first meeting story, we move to the couch in the living room.
