Penn groans and flops onto his back, cracking one eye open like he’s halfway convinced he’s in a dream, or a very weird hostage situation. The second eye joins the party. He narrows them at me, suspicious, like I’ve just licked his toothbrush or declared myself Queen of Peppermintville. His gaze drifts over my face slowly, methodically, like he’s trying to solve a puzzle.
“Lover?” he murmurs and scrubs a hand through his messy hair, voice rough with sleep when he adds, “Did we…?”
I snort so hard I nearly give myself a headache. “Oh, hell no.” I throw an arm over my eyes, mostly to hide the fact that I had, in fact, fallen asleep thinking about him. Specifically, how big he is, how warm he is, how not-terrible it would’ve been to curl up against that wall of muscle like a human-sized teddy bear. But I can’t let him know that. I’ve got pride. Dignity. Standards. Also, I’m not about to become another notch in Penn Radford’s bedpost, or, more accurately, another bunny in his harem.
“Jeez,” he says, feigning offense. “Why don’t you tell me what you really think?” He’s still smoothing back his hair, which, annoyingly, looks good even in bedhead form. And those biceps? Rude. Honestly rude.
“I thought I just did,” I mutter, looking anywhere but his arms. Or his eyes. Or his mouth.
He arches an eyebrow. “Then why did you call me lover?”
“Just trying it out,” I say, casual as a cucumber in a gin and tonic. “Seeing how it sounded on my tongue.”
“And?”
I pretend to ponder, tapping my chin. “It was okay. I think we’re going to be able to fool everyone.”
“Great.” He rolls toward me, and the bed dips beneath his weight. Suddenly I’m sliding toward him, our bodies colliding. His arm shoots out instinctively and wraps around me, catching me against his side like we’ve done this a hundred times before. And I freeze.
Like full-body stiff board freeze.
“Relax,” he mutters, his breath tickling my ear. “I know I’m repulsive to you, Jaylynn, but if you flinch every time I touch you, we’re going to blow our cover.”
Blow.
Oh no. Nope. We’re not going there. I do not have the maturity of a twelve-year-old boy. Much.
I clear my throat and force myself to lean into it. Act natural. That’s what lovers do, right? Touch and…exist comfortably in shared beds.
“I think we’re going to have to work on that if we want to pull this off,” he mumbles.
“What are you suggesting?” I ask, careful to keep my tone level. Or as level as it can be when I’m being spooned by the human equivalent of a hockey-playing Greek god.
He smiles at me. Or wait, is that a smirk? Why is he smirking like he knows something I don’t?
“I know this is platonic, and I want it that way,” he says, all calm and rational. His indifference shouldn’t stab me in the heart, but suddenly I’m wondering why I’m so easily overlooked by a guy with a reputation for having a type. Which is all types. It shouldn’t sting. I don’t even want him. Not really. Not outside this fake-fiancé thing we’ve got going on. So why does my ego feel like it just got dunked in the snow?
Ridiculous.
“Good. I want it that way too,” I say, lifting my chin forcefully. Maybe too forcefully, because now he’s giving me that look. The one that says, I know a lie when I hear one.
“I think we need to practice,” he says slowly, like he’s testing the waters.
I narrow my eyes. “Practice what?”
His smirk widens. “Being…touchy.”
My voice jumps an octave. “Touchy?”
“Yeah. You know. PDA. Public hand-holding. Snuggling. Pretending we can’t keep our hands off each other. That kind of thing.”
My brain short-circuits. “Are you suggesting we run drills? Like… fake kissing warm-ups? Do I need a helmet?”
He laughs. “I was going to start with something simple,” he says, totally unfazed. “Can I put my hand on your arm?”
I blink. “You’re asking if you can touch my arm?”
He shrugs. “Consent is sexy.”