Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 141676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 567(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 567(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
What even is this life?
It’s too easy to forget this is fake—and that’s what scares me.
Sometimes, I catch myself forgetting. Like whenever I look at him cooking in the kitchen, working out in the basement, or doing normal Dexter things in his anti-normal life.
I’m afraid this is the sweetest dream.
I’m afraid the time will come for me to open my eyes again any day now.
And I’m afraid that even fake perfection has a karmic price—and it probably has something to do with that date coming up with his elusive business partner.
He leads me into his office—apparently a stunning work office isn’t enough and he needs one at home as well—and sits me down on one side of the desk.
“We need to talk,” he says.
“This is corporate. Are we here to roleplay?” I raise an eyebrow as he sits in the leather power chair behind the desk.
“No. Not yet. This is serious, Junie.”
It’s strange seeing him like this.
Gone is the gentle bear I’ve worshipped over the past few weeks.
His eyes are hard, his mouth harder.
This is the high-strung man who walked into my store all those weeks ago. Workaholic Dex. Moody Dex.
Type-A Control-Freak Dex.
“Okay,” I say, nodding. Reality always had to return sometime, right? “This is about our date with your partner, right?”
“Correct. We need to go over every detail. He’s invited us to his clubhouse at the Liberty Trails golf course. If the man gets one hint this isn’t what we say it is, the whole deal is fucked.”
My heart sinks.
Haven’t our last few weeks together convinced him how good we can be?
“I thought we had our story straight?” I hold the ring up to the light so the diamonds sparkle. I’m almost used to its weight on my finger. The ring, like everything else, feels natural. Proof that I’m going insane. “Oh, and we’ve definitely got the physical stuff down. Going above and beyond if you ask me.”
He doesn’t smile, looking at me with hard eyes that tell me he knows exactly what I’m thinking about. It’s like he can turn off his tenderness.
“It’s not the physical stuff that worries me, Junie.”
“Fine.” I tie my hair up and fold my arms. “You want to talk details, go. There’s a lot I don’t know about you yet, so we can start there.”
“I wasn’t asking you to interrogate me.”
“No?” I raise an eyebrow. “What were you asking, then?”
“About us. We need a believable relationship. We need details,” he tells me pointedly.
Here, at his desk, I can’t take his hand or snuggle up against him. Just like I said, it’s corporate, a sudden chill divide between personal and professional.
“I mean, I’m not sure it’s details about our fake relationship we need,” I say. “We can work that out on the fly. It’s how well I know you, Dex. Because I still don’t.”
He runs a hand through his hair.
“Christ, Junie, what more do you need? You’ve seen it all. The good, the bad, the ugly. My house, my life, my faults.”
“Yeah. Surface stuff.” I lean forward. It’s like this man has never been in a relationship before. “Look, your friend isn’t going to sit us down in separate rooms and give us a list of questions. If we want to be convincing, we need to know things about each other.”
“Like what?” he asks dryly. “What my favorite color is? What vegetables I spat out as a child?”
I laugh at the image, and again at how adorably irritated he is.
I also think back to the heady early days of my relationship with Liam, before work and life and the future became too much for us to bear.
Before he became a ginormous prick.
They were filled with late car rides to nowhere talking about our past, our hopes, our dreams.
I was just a baby then. Twenty years old and dreamy-eyed about the future. I told him about my parents, my losses, my life with Gran. He told me about the heavy shoes he had to fill at his company.
“Couples talk,” I say after thinking. “And not just about the now.”
He holds my gaze for a few seconds, his blue eyes twinkling. I half expect him to shoot me down.
What’s more vulnerable than showing old scars?
But he just shrugs.
“What do you suggest?”
“I don’t know about you,” I say dryly, “but my best conversations don’t take place behind a desk. Come on.”
Hand in hand, I lead him through the house to his library.
When I first came here, I was blown away by how big it was. Bookshelves line three of four walls and a huge window overlooks the city, letting sunlight splash in on the cozy plush sofas and chairs in the center of the room.
“Here,” I say, nodding to the wall beside the door and the photos I’ve glimpsed before.
They range from old black-and-white images to grainy color to sharp modern photographs.