Best Fake Fiance (Loveless Brothers 2)

“Yeah?” I ask, pretending I’m Mister Casual as Fuck.

“Can you come tie this for me? I’m completely incapable of tying bows behind myself,” she says.

“Sure,” I say, and walk into her bedroom. It’s controlled chaos as usual: laundry in big piles, but only in one corner. A precarious stack of books on her bedside table. Her bedside light sitting atop another, smaller, stack of books, also precarious. Her bed unmade, but cozy-looking.

“Thanks,” she says as I take one end of her sash in each hand. “Whenever I do it myself, I wind up looking like a Christmas present wrapped by a blind toddler.”

I focused every ounce of concentration I can muster on tying the mint green sash, because otherwise I might think more thoughts about unwrapping Charlie, and my daughter’s in the other room so I will not be thinking those thoughts today.

Not even some.

Her hair smells tropical, like coconut and pineapple.

None of those thoughts, I remind myself.

I finish the bow, adjust it, and step back. Charlie looks over her shoulder at herself in a full-length mirror.

“Holy shit,” she says.

“She’s right outside,” I remind her.

Charlie wrinkles her nose in apology.

“Sorry,” she says. “But every time I need a bow tied, I’m coming to you from now on.”

“I’ve had a lot of practice,” I say, nodding my head toward the seven-year-old in her living room, and Charlie just laughs.

“Right,” she says. “Maybe you can teach me how to French braid, too.”

“You might be surprised.”

“You guys ready?” she asks, dropping to her hands and knees.

“Yep,” I confirm. I don’t point out that yes, we’re ready, of course we’re ready, we showed up to her apartment exactly when we said she would and she was the one still getting dressed. Pointing that sort of thing out to Charlie doesn’t make any kind of long-term difference, and mostly just makes her feel worse.

“All right,” she says, lowering her head to the floor. “Let me grab my shoes and we can head out.”

I look away.

It takes all my willpower, but Charlie’s clearly not used to wearing a dress — I didn’t even know she owned one — and so instead of memorizing the way she looks with her ass in the air while she searches for her shoes under her bed, I look away.

I deserve a medal.

“I’ll let Rusty know,” I say, and saunter out of the room. She’s still sitting on the pillow, wearing huge purple sunglasses and reading her book. I don’t know how she can see to read, but it’s not my problem.

“You ready to hit the road again, kiddo?” I ask.

“Can I take the book with me?”

“Sure,” calls Charlie from her room.

“Thank you!” Rusty calls back.

A few seconds later, Charlie comes out. She’s wearing sandals, her hair down and cascading around her neck and shoulders. I think she’s got lip gloss or something on, and my great-grandmother’s ring is sparkling away on her finger.

And her bra and panties match.

I wish I didn’t know that last part. It’s not helping anything.

“You’re wearing a dress?” Rusty says. She sits up, cross-legged, and lifts her giant sunglasses up to get a better look at Charlie, who grins at the gesture.

“Yup,” says Charlie. “You’re wearing shorts.”

“Yeah, that’s normal,” Rusty says. “I didn’t know you had a dress.”

“I didn’t know that either,” I say, casually.

So, so casually.

I also didn’t know that she had matching—

Jesus, stop it.

“Betsy took me shopping yesterday after work,” she admits.

Then she twirls once. The skirt flares out briefly, then swishes around her legs when she stops.

I’ve never seen Charlie look like this. I’ve seen her in coveralls and jeans and cutoffs and cargo pants and swimsuits and dressed as the planet Saturn, once, but never in a sundress that nips in at the waist and flares at the hips, that accentuates her breasts like this or that shows off her upper back—

“You look pretty,” Rusty says.

“Thank you.”

“Yeah, you look nice,” I offer.

“Thanks,” she says, one eyebrow raised, and I regret it immediately. Is there a lamer compliment than you look nice?

Fuck no, there is not.

“It’s a good dress,” I try again. “It’s got. You know. It twirls, and it’s good on your skin.”

Good on your skin. I sound like a serial killer.

What I’m really thinking is that she looks beautiful, breathtaking, that she’s always been pretty but there’s something about this simple summer dress that’s knocked me on my ass and all I can think of is the word nice.

I want to touch her. The feeling isn’t new but it’s surprisingly intense right now, the urge to brush my fingers along her arm, slide my hand around her waist, plant my lips on one sun-kissed shoulder.

“We should go,” I say, before I can accidentally say something like your eyeballs look delicious. “Ladies first.”

Rusty gets off the floor, puts the sunglasses back where she got them, and heads for the door in front of Charlie.