Page 90 of Faking It
That’s all.
SHE’S GORGEOUS.
That’s my first thought when I turn from the chair at the desk and stare at her asleep in the bed. Her hair, her body, her lips. They call to me. Taunt me. Tempt me.
I’m so screwed.
That’s my second thought. And one that is a constant every time I look at her.
I need to work.
I always need to work.
But I don’t move. I don’t turn back around to the facts and figures filling up the spreadsheet on my computer telling me that this hard launch coming up next week right before we hit the New York press circuit is going to smash the records for like companies.
Instead I watch her because hell if everything about her isn’t distracting, and it’s not just right now. It’s not just because I know she’s naked beneath those covers and that her pussy feels like heaven. It just seems like everything these days comes to circle back around to Harlow.
It’s been almost six weeks now and she still scares the shit out of me. The way she challenges me, makes me feel, makes me want to step away from the computer for no reason other than to sit on the couch with her and talk about trivial things or better yet, say nothing at all.
Fuck.
I run a hand through my hair and know it’s best that this is all ending soon. Shit, I’ve seen that look in her eyes. The one that says she’s wondering what if. I’ve seen the few times she forces herself to step away and collect herself. I know that this is much more than just a job for her at this point . . . and fuck if that doesn’t suck since that’s all it is to me.
Keep telling yourself that and maybe you might start to believe it.
Two weeks left. The launch. New York for a few days. Then we head home.
This will end soon, and we’ll both go back to our different corners of the same city. We’ll be cordial to each other when there is future promotional stuff needed for SoulM8 but other than that, our we’re-just-here-for-the-sex will be over.
We’ll move on.
And I’ll be fine with that.
Lie on top of fib on top of not-want-to-face-the-truth.
Just like the one where I keep telling myself that wanting to spend time with someone as much as I want to with Harlow—in and out of the bedroom—is a completely normal thing.
Work, Zane.
The thought repeats in my head but I stand and crawl onto the bed beside her and just study her.
All of this—the constant thinking about her, the never-ending want for her, the knowing when I reach out beside me, she’ll be there—it’s the direct result of being stuck together on this bus, on this trip, and doing all of the stupid excursions Robert made us do.
The excursions I fought against but that somehow hold some of my best memories of this whole trip. Harlow in the wild, I like to call it. I smile at the thought, but all I can picture is her standing atop that ropes course with her smile wide and confidence wrapped around her like a goddamn shield of armor.
I reach out to touch her. I can’t resist. About the same time that I do, her hazel eyes flutter open and stare straight into mine. Her face unknowingly turns into my hand on her cheek.
It’s shit like that that gets me.
“Morning,” she murmurs, her voice sounding like straight sex as it grabs me by the balls and doesn’t let go.
Yep, definitely screwed.
“HARLOW?”
“Hi, Momma.”
“Ahhh.” That’s it. She gives just the sound and nothing else.
