Faking Ms. Right: A Hot Romantic Comedy (Dirty Martini Running Club Book 1)
Faking Ms. Right: Chapter 12

It took me a few seconds to realize I hadn’t pressed the button to my floor after I’d stepped into the elevator. That would explain why the doors had slid closed, but I wasn’t moving. I hit twenty-seven and felt the elevator begin to rise.

For the second time in less than a week, I hadn’t slept well. Except that last night, instead of being haunted by visions of a woman in a red dress, I’d had a woman who smelled like fucking heaven lying next to me.

How the hell did she smell that good? I’d never noticed it before. Although I’d never been in such close quarters with her for a long period of time. Her scent was subtle, nothing overpowering. She smelled like strawberries, which I would never have considered an appealing way for a woman to smell before Everly. But she did, and it was delicious… and distracting as hell.

Her scent must have been from something she’d used in the bath. I was certain she hadn’t been trying to tempt me with anything by taking a bath—and leaving the door open a crack—but the effect had been dramatic. The thought of her lying in my bathtub, naked, had been overwhelmingly arousing. I’d gone back to my office to calm down and wound up rubbing one out in a futile attempt to relax. I’d come fast, and hard, but I’d still been plagued with yet another uncooperative erection as soon as I’d smelled her in my bed.

I was a man, I had needs. But I was accustomed to being in control of those needs. Everly had me feeling out-of-control, and it was enormously uncomfortable. I didn’t know what was wrong with me.

I hadn’t counted on any of this when I’d asked her to pose as my girlfriend.

The elevator dinged and the doors opened. Clearing my throat, I straightened the collar of my coat and walked to my office.

She was already here—she was always here before I arrived, wasn’t she?—and she stood, my coffee in her hand, as soon as she saw me.

I couldn’t look her in the eyes. My body was already reacting to the memory of that little splash of water—the sound I’d heard when I’d paused by the bathroom door. I’d been overcome with the image of her bare legs tipping apart, revealing a shimmery view of her pussy.

God, I was doing it again.

“Good morning, Mr. Calloway.”

Her voice was hesitant, and I didn’t answer. Just walked into my office, knowing she’d follow. Wondering if she still smelled like summer.

I heard the click of her heels behind me. Why did she have me so disconcerted? It must have been the sleep deprivation. I took sleep—as well as exercise and proper diet—very seriously. The lack of sleep was clearly getting to me.

Regardless of what was going on, I needed her out of my office as quickly as possible.

“So… okay,” she said as I hung my coat. “I guess… your schedule. Sorry. It’s… this is… should we talk about things, or…”

No, I didn’t want to talk. I wanted to have my coffee and focus on contract negotiations and cash flow reports. Anything to get my head back in the game where it needed to be.

I moved past her and sat at my desk. “Just my schedule.”

Her face fell and I instantly regretted what I’d said.

“Of course.” She swallowed, the emotion disappearing from her expression, and brought out her phone. “You have a ten o’clock with—”

“Everly.”

She stopped, pressing her lips together.

“Close the door.”

Without looking at me, she walked over and closed the door, then took a seat on the other side of my desk.

“What do you want to talk about?” I asked.

“I’m just not sure how to act when we’re here. Are we pretending? Are we pretending we’re trying to hide it? Are we pretending that we’re not pretending?”

She did have a point. We needed our stories to be consistent. I didn’t want this to become more of a distraction at work than it already was. “When we’re here, we’re all business. Keeping it strictly professional.”

“What if word gets out that I’m living with you? Am I supposed to deny we’re together?”

“Your personal life is personal. You don’t have to deny anything, but you’re not obligated to share details, either.”

“Okay. That seems reasonable. So, we can act normal when we’re here. The pretending is mostly for your dad and the harpy anyway.”

“Precisely.”

She nodded, appearing to relax, and that smile she always wore returned. “Okay, then.”

I tried to focus as she launched into a rundown of my schedule. She had things well in hand, as she always did. Her calm voice was soothing, and by the time she finished debriefing, my mind was clear. I was still tired, but the coffee would help. And I was back to seeing Everly as my practical and efficient assistant.

Mostly.

She went out to her desk and I forced my eyes to my laptop screen. I had work to do. But her questions about our ruse had me thinking.

It wasn’t going to be enough for Everly to simply sleep in my bedroom at night. If that was the extent of our fabricated relationship, it was going to become apparent rather quickly that something was missing. My dad would notice—and start asking questions.

That was something I wanted to avoid. I couldn’t have my father doubting the veracity of this relationship. And the answer was quite simple.

I needed to date her.

Taking Everly out regularly would make it clear that we were indeed a couple. Dad wouldn’t have reason to question things, regardless of anything Svetlana might put into his ear. Taking her out on evenings or weekends would keep office gossip to a minimum. And we’d be home less, therefore less likely to be around Svetlana if she was visiting my father.

Besides, dinners with Everly wouldn’t be a bad way to spend some evenings. She was pleasant company.

I was about to message her, asking her to make a reservation, when I stopped. She always made my dinner reservations when I had a date. That was part of her job. But asking her, as my assistant, to make a dinner reservation for the two of us felt… odd, and somehow wrong.

Instead, I looked up the number to El Gaucho and called them myself. Made a reservation for Friday evening for two.