She rolled her eyes. “Oh my God, relax Mr. Stuffykins. How would she even get my number?”
He opened his mouth to answer, but the show came back on and Clover shushed him while patting the seat next to her on the couch. If he hadn’t been on the verge of a Clover-induced heart attack, he wouldn’t have followed her lead. He would have gone back to the office and pounded his head against his desk until the perfect solution to the Singapore problem fell out. Instead of doing that, though, he sat down on the couch—making sure to leave a sanity space of at least a foot between them—and settled in to see what kind of do-it-yourself renovating fresh hell he’d gotten himself into.
Chapter Nine
They were four episodes in and, God help him, Sawyer was actually rooting for a pair of DIY weirdos on his TV screen. Two sisters in their sixties—Eileen and Aurora—were taking on their husbands with the challenge being to pick and redo three pieces that worked into a classic boudoir feel. The husbands, Bob and Larry, were—unexpectedly—kicking ass. Was he rooting for them because they were dudes? No. Bob and Larry understood that people didn’t want delicate bedroom furniture. The men had put together a plan for a dresser, a bed, and a mirror each with a solid, rough-hewn feel to them. No matter what happened in that room, that furniture was going to take it and stay rock solid. Bob and Larry knew what they were about.
“No one is going to buy that stuff,” Clover said, holding out the bowl of popcorn she’d made. “It looks like it belongs in a cabin in the woods where you’d go to write your manifesto.”
“Wrong. It’s much better than all the flowers and velvet covered crap Eileen and Aurora put together.” He grabbed another handful of popcorn, buttery enough to make his trainer have a seizure, and watched as the two teams went into carnival barker mode in their efforts to sell their refinished finds.
“That’s called romance and putting people in the mood. It’s the vibe you’re going for in a boudoir.” She sat the bowl on the glass coffee table and, when she settled back against the couch, cut the one-foot sanity zone between them in half. “Not that you would know. Your bedroom is probably all glass and cheerful black.”
The fact that she’d thought about his bedroom made that very male part of his brain wake up and take a bow. It wasn’t like he was pounding his chest and going all caveman about it, but he couldn’t keep the smirk off his face as he stretched out his legs and extended one arm along the back of the couch. The fact that his fingers were now in touching distance of the blond strands that had escaped the messy knot on top of her head was purely coincidental.
Yeah and so is the fact that your cock hasn’t gotten below half mast since you realized your fake fiancée wasn’t wearing a bra. What are you, fourteen?
“Care to make a bet on the outcome?” he asked.
“What are the stakes?” she countered.
His mind filled with all of the inappropriate possibilities, but managed to clamp his jaw closed and stay in his seat until he forced every pornographic image behind a mental steel door. “Winner gets final say on what we get at the flea market tomorrow.”
Shit. That was only marginally better than the first ideas he’d had. Sure, it was more appropriate, but he had no intention of bringing anything home from the damn flea market.
Clover shoved out her hand. “Deal.”
She didn’t look the least bit doubtful. Why did he think he’d just been suckered? Because you probably have been, numb nuts. Still, he shook her hand—even that minor contact sending a jolt straight south. It was just what he needed to jerk him back to reality in a desperate bid for self-preservation. This wasn’t just a silly game. It sure as hell wasn’t a real relationship. The fake engagement was a month and a half of fun and games for her and six weeks of peace for him so he could settle the largest construction bid they’d ever offered. After that, she’d go to Australia and he’d have figured out a solution to the problem of his matchmaking mama. All he had to do was keep his dick safely behind his zipper and everything would work out fine. Only a complete dumbass drank the toxic cocktail of business mixed with sex when hundreds of millions were on the line.
“Oh look, you’re scowling again.” Clover shot him a cocky smile and settled back, this time eliminating the sanity zone completely so they were hip to hip. “Looks like somebody just realized he took on more than he could handle.”
Instead of confirming the truth, Sawyer turned his attention to the activity on the screen and ignored how good her soft curves felt pressed against him.
Twenty minutes later and Sawyer was left slack-jawed at the outcome. Bob and Larry had had their asses handed to them. Not only did they not win, they took the biggest loss in the show’s history.
“This show makes no sense,” he grumbled, reaching out for something to soothe his wounded pride—sore loser, party of one. “If people want a table, why don’t they just go out and get the one they want instead of wasting their time totally redoing an old table?”
Clover snorted and twisted around to face him, the move bringing her even more firmly against him as she gave him a hey-stupid look. “Well, for one, there’s a thing called money and not everyone has as much of it as you do.”
“I know that,” he said, being difficult just for the sake of it—and because he hadn’t stopped thinking about how hot an annoyed Clover was since she’d jabbed him in the chest with her fingernail last night. “But are you seriously telling me you couldn’t find something in your budget range?”
Right on cue, the pink rose in her cheeks. “My budget is none of your business—and it’s not always about the money.” The tip of her tongue darted out and left her full bottom lip glistening. “Sometimes it’s the fun of making something new or refinishing a piece to show the beauty that was hiding underneath that no one spotted but you.”
“So you’re the flea market fairy godmother?”
“Come on, don’t tell me you’ve never experienced a thrill when you’ve built something.”
There wasn’t a damn thing he could say to that. He hadn’t even liked Legos as a kid.
“Oh my God.” She smacked him playfully, square in the middle of his chest. “You’ve never actually made anything, have you?”
He was the CEO of Carlyle Enterprises, he wasn’t supposed to be out there in a hard hat and a leather tool belt. “I make deals. I make plans. I make the big picture fit my goals.”
“None of which are tangible,” she said with just enough blue-collar superiority to hit a vulnerable spot he didn’t even realize was there.
“Really?” He turned so they were facing each other, only inches apart. The air crackled around them as the tension built. “You’re sitting in one right now. The Carlyle High-Rise was my first build.”