“I’ll go get dressed,” I assure her. “But tell me one thing Bad Beatrice did when you were little first.”
She rolls her eyes. “Why? What’s your obsession with my deviant child self and her imaginary friend?”
“It’s not an obsession. It’s a window into your psyche. As your fake fiancé, I should know stories like that, cute tales from your past that you shared with me while we were falling in love. Come on, humor me.”
She lets out a soft growl. “Fine. When I was six, I was dying to have a swimming pool in my backyard like Caley Smith, my nemesis. So, one day when my parents were at Lauren’s gymnastics meet, and I was allegedly being watched by our next-door neighbor, my friends and I dug a huge hole behind my house, turned on the hose, and went to ride bikes while it filled with water. Being small children with the attention spans of goldfish, we forgot the water was still running until my parents got home and freaked out. By then, the backyard was a disaster, Mom’s rose garden was destroyed, and the garage was completely flooded. I told my parents Bad Beatrice did it because she was part troll and wanted to live in a swamp instead of my pink bedroom because she hated the color pink and all smells that weren’t swamp smells.”
“Brilliant,” I say, grinning up at her. “And how much troll was Beatrice? Half? A quarter? And was that troll on her mother’s or father’s side?”
She slaps my arm, but she’s fighting a smile. “Stop. You’ve got your childhood dirt. Now go get dressed.”
“You’re awfully concerned about getting me out of this towel.”
“Out of the towel and into clothes. You’re way too close to naked for hanging out with an old friend.”
I tilt my head. “Is that what we are? Old friends?”
She shrugs. “Or new friends and former enemies? Frenemies? I don’t know. Whatever we are, there should be more clothes involved when we’re alone. What you choose to do naked in public is your business.”
Resisting the urge to ask her if she’s sure about that—so far, she’s made no move to get off my lap or away from my bare skin and all I want is to pull her closer—I nod and cast a pointed glance at her ass. “All right. As soon as I can stand, I’ll work on getting decent.”
“Dressed is good enough,” Harlow says, rising to her feet and crossing her arms as she steps back. “Getting you decent is too big a job for one night.”
“Right.” I rise and start toward the bedroom, pausing in the doorway to motion back toward the couch. “The couch folds out, by the way, but there are two queen beds in here if you decide you’d rather have a proper mattress. Doesn’t matter to me, either way. Once I’m out, I’m out, so you don’t have to worry about your snores waking me in the night.”
“Good to know,” she says, with a smile. “But I’ll be fine on the couch, thanks.”
“Suit yourself,” I say and shut the door behind me, a little disappointed, though I know it’s for the best.
I’ll be much less tempted by sexy sleeping Harlow if she’s in another room with a closed door between us.
Or at least, slightly less tempted.
Fuck, who am I kidding? As long as she’s this close, I’m going to be fantasizing about her every moment I’m awake and dreaming about her while I’m asleep. That’s a given. And I have a feeling it might be the same for her.
The only thing that remains to be seen is if we’ll keep our heads on straight or let all that fantasizing lead to real-life mistakes neither one of us will be able to blame on Bad Beatrice.
Chapter Ten
Harlow
Cameron calls while I’m in the shower, but I don’t call him back. I shoot him a quick text assuring him I’m not going to do anything stupid and hurry to reapply my makeup.
I don’t need him to tell me it’s a bad idea to bang Derrick, anymore.
Clearly, I’m not thinking straight lately. I’m already making the best of one deeply flawed plan, the last thing I need is more self-made stress or mess. I just need to keep my eye on the prize, give Gram something to be excited about this holiday season, and then figure out how to end this fake relationship without upsetting her somewhere down the line.
Maybe this summer…
I can tell Gram I discovered that Derrick hates lobster rolls and that— combined with his habit of leaving the toilet seat up—has convinced me we’re not suited for the long haul.
Or, if I want to go with a more reasonable excuse, I could tell her that Derrick wants kids, I’m still not sure about that, and that it seems unfair to marry him when I might not be able to make all his dreams come true.