Page 37 of That Fake Feeling

Excellentopportunity for me to be a dick again.

“Funstory,Sherri,”Itell her. “Rose’sroommate’s dad makes some revolting and particularly lethal wine.”

I’mabout to launch into how muchIlove drinking midmorning whenRosecuts me off.

“Yes, it’s very deceptive, particularly the red currant and dandelion.Itgets you before you’ve realized.AndpoorCon-Conhere”—she gives me serious side-eye—“turned to take another glass from my tray and tripped over something, sending us flying backward onto a bed of tomato plants.”

Ishoot a look atSherri. “Thefirst of many bedsI’vethrown her onto.”

Sherrilooks a little uncomfortable.IguessDanishroyal families wouldn’t behave like this.

Thephotographer’s assistant runs from one side of us to the other, figuring out the best place to stand with his huge, circular reflector.

“Closer, guys,” says his boss. “Getcloser together.Enjoyeach other.”

Iwink atRose. “Readyto enjoy me, love pumpkin?”

Shesidles over, exaggerating the swing of her hips, and takes hold of either side of my open collar.

Isettle my hands on her waist and resist the urge to pull her hard against me.Mycock twitches in frustration…as much as it can in these pants, anyway.

“Oh, beautiful.”Thephotographer clicks away. “Keepgoing, keep smiling, keep loving each other.”

Rosegazes into my eyes likeI’mthe only person who exists.

“Whatare you playing at?” she whispers, barely moving her glossy red lips.

Itry to imitate her hushed ventriloquist act. “Don’tknow what you mean.”

Islide one hand slightly higher up her side.Herbody shivers under my touch, then suddenly stills as if she caught herself and brought it under control.

“Youaren’t drunk or hungover.”There’sa fiery spark in those brown eyes. “Youhaven’t touched a drop.”

Sheraises her voice to normal speaking volume and continues to answerSherri’squestion. “So, after all the pictures and videos of us falling over were plastered everywhere, this kind, beautiful man felt so bad that he sent me the most incredible bouquetI’veever seen.”

“Faceme,” the photographer calls. “Putyour arm around her waist,Connor, and pull her to your side.Rose, rest your hand on his chest, please.Thenlook at each other.”

Roseplaces her hand on my belly and slides it up to my chest.Thatwas an unnecessary move.Andit sparks a completely unnecessary flutter in my stomach.

Hervoice returns to a whisper. “Whyare you trying to ruin this?”

Shesees right through me.

Everyother woman who’s crossed my path sees dollar signs, a house they can’t wait to move into, and a lifestyle they crave.Roselooks at me and sees a job.Aswell as a person and a lifestyle she can’t wait to get away from.Shedoes seem to like the house, butI’msure she’d like it even more ifIdidn’t live in it.

“Don’tknow what you’re talking about,”Iwhisper back, before snorting and rejoining theSherriconversation. “Flowers?She’sconfused.I’venever sent a bouquet.”

“Oftomatoes,”Rosesays, quick as a flash. “Itwas a bouquet of tomatoes.”

“What?”SherriandIask at almost the same time.

“Moresmiling please,Connor,” the photographer calls sinceIprobably now look more surprised than happy.

Roseis working so hard to try to rescue this,Ialmost feel bad.But, hey,I’mon a mission. “Idefinitely did not send you tomato plants.”

Herhand is warm through my shirt.I’mpretty sure the photographer doesn’t need it there anymore and it’s now there ofRose’sown free will.

“No, silly!Ofcourse, you didn’t.”Shedrags her fingers from side to side across my chest, stopping a tiny fraction before hitting each nipple, and turns toSherri, beaming. “Itwas made from tomatoescarvedinto flowers.”Shepauses, before adding with a dramatic flourish, “Abouquet of tomato flowers!”