The Real Deal

Her lips twitch in an evil grin. “All’s fair.”

“What if I kiss you senseless, darlin’? Would that knock you off your game?” I say, tossing that option into the ring as I slide into my southern accent.

“Oh, so is this your cowboy option, then? Maybe I should have ordered this one. And why would kissing knock me off my game, pardner?”

“If it doesn’t, I’m not doing it right, sweet thing,” I say, my drawl going low, rough.

“Do you think you’re doing it right?”

I grip even tighter, pull her a little closer. Everything we do is suddenly foreplay, even our role play. Especially our role play. “Pretty sure I’ve been doin’ it right.”

“You think so?”

I nod, nice and slow, watching her expression soften more as I stare at her with desire in my eyes. “Damn sure.”

She breathes my name softly. “Theo.”

Something in me snaps.

I cup her cheeks. I kiss her again. There’s no gentleness this time. It’s only heat. Roughness. Desire.

She claws at my shirt, and I grab her face harder. I walk her to the edge of the bed, till the backs of her knees hit the mattress. I seal my mouth to hers and swallow her sighs, kiss her breath.

Taste her.

I run my tongue over hers, and her mouth intoxicates me. It fries my brain. She’s the sweetest, most sensual thing I’ve ever tasted. Like a sun-kissed peach, a honey apricot. Hell, thinking of summer fruit makes me leap twenty steps ahead to how she’d taste everywhere. I want to wrap my arms around her thighs and bury my face between her legs, and devour her. I want to know the noises she makes when she comes.

When I pull apart, a sound rips from my throat like an animal. It’s the sound of how much I want her.

“What are you thinking?” she asks.

I groan. “You don’t want to know.”

She grabs my face, stares into my eyes. “I painted lips all over this face. You think I don’t want to know? I do want to know.”

I bring my mouth to her ear. “I’m thinking of things I can do to you with my lips.”

She shudders. “Tell me what you want to do.”

“April.” I try to put on the brakes. But I have no luck, since I lick the shell of her ear instead. She trembles as my tongue roams her flesh, traveling to her neck.

“What are we doing?” she says, her voice sounding as hazy as my head.

I don’t know anymore. I don’t know a thing. I felt certain a few minutes ago when I gave myself a pep talk. Now all I want is to have her under me.

“Tell me,” she says again. “Tell me what we’re doing.”

I reach for her hands and lay her body on the bed, pressing against her. Grinding against her. “You’re demanding with all your questions.”

“Maybe I am.”

“I’ll tell you what I’m thinking about doing. Kissing you everywhere. Wondering how you taste. What you sound like.”

Her eyes float closed and she arches into me. “Can we just make out the rest of the afternoon?”

I laugh and push against her once more. “I can’t say I’d object. But I think the cavalry would come looking for us.”

She groans in frustration, but pushes her hips up against me, rubbing against the full length of my hard-on.

“Evidently, thinking of you Hula-Hooping turns me on,” I say, going for humor, and she laughs.

“Apparently, thinking of you watching me Hula-Hoop gets me going, too.”

“That’s why we’re a perfect pair of fakers, huh?”

Her expression darkens. “Yes. Yes, we are,” she says, but her tone is crisper, and she pushes gently back on me. “We should get out of here.” Her tone is cool again.

I furrow my brow. “Why do I feel like I’ve said the wrong thing again?”

She shakes her head. “You said nothing wrong.”

“Are you sure?”

She sighs as I tug her up from the bed and let go of her hands. “You’re just so good at what you do that I have to remind myself you’re an actor.”

My shoulders sag. “April.”

She shakes her head. “It’s okay. I hired you to act.”

I run the back of my fingers down her cheek. “It’s not acting with you. I swear.”

A small smile seems to tug at her lips. “Yeah?”

I nod. “I swear.”

I dust my lips over hers, whispering each word: “Not. An. Act.”

She trembles, then pulls back to look at me. “It’s not for me either. I know I’m pretending with my parents about us, but being with you hardly feels like an act.”

A megaphone sounds from the yard, blaring across the air. “Time for the next round.”

I stand up, run my hand through my hair.

She points her thumb to the door. “I should go.”

I point mine to my pants. “I should wait a minute.”

“I should apologize for causing your tardiness, but I can’t seem to find it in me to do that,” she says with a wicked grin.

She leaves, and as the door shuts, I smile like a fool. She makes me laugh. She keeps me on my toes.

And as I stand here, killing time, I’ve got a new problem. A bigger one. I want this woman more than I want to stay away from her.

I don’t know what the hell to do about that little predicament.

A few minutes later, the flagpole in my pants fades, so I make my way to the yard and I try to keep my eye on the prize. I can still win the individual prize. I can still nab that “charity money.” And if I do that, then maybe I can get out from under the weight of money problems.

Outside, I catch April executing some of the most badass Hula-Hoop moves I never knew existed. Water-balloon baseball comes next, and I destroy all comers in that. I kick ass in the paper-airplane competition, but Emma is pretty awesome, too, at making gliders from paper. A little later, I take third place in the ring toss, and then when it comes to the obstacle course, April is a master, jumping through tires, swinging on ropes, until the end, where I swear she slows down.

For a second, it feels as though she lets me win.

But that’s crazy.





Chapter Twenty-six

April

I’m not saying all my ideas are bright ones. Some could be classified as zany. Others as positively harebrained. Some might be labeled just plain batty, even though I swear that washing my hands with the wooden air freshener sticks in the fancy bathroom of the Michelin three-star restaurant I went to seemed like a good idea at the time. The sticks looked like some new kind of elegant soap.

But the idea that landed in my brain just now feels right. I’m not referring to the idea to let him win the obstacle course, which I did since I have the impression he wants to win the individual prize for charity.

I mean the new plan I hatched. I should have just enough time to pull it off this afternoon, since we split up into boys and girls. Games are fine and good, but sometimes a woman likes to be pampered. As the men take off for an afternoon fishing expedition, the ladies head into town. The first order of business is the nail salon, and we pile inside, snagging all the big cushy leather chairs for pedicures and the swivel seats for manicures. My toes could use some attention, so I opt for a pedicure. As I lounge in the massage chair—with Emma operating the remote control on my back and taking a particular mischievous delight in turning the setting all the way to high—a dose of jitters courses through me.

When my silver-polished toes are nearly dry, I slide my feet into my flip-flops and stand. I’ve finished first, since I’m not getting a manicure. When you work with your hands, manicures are as pointless as a man’s nipples.

“I need to run a quick errand,” I say to my mom as a manicurist cuts her cuticles. “To grab coffee,” I add, since the open-ended nature of an errand might invite too many questions. It’s best to have a simple and airtight alibi, like caffeine.

The trouble is, everyone proceeds to give me their coffee orders.