Fake Marriage Box Set

“I hope I wasn't interrupting something,” she said as I came into the room. “It looked like the two of you were altogether too serious, for once!”

I laughed a little, wondering how much I should tell her. “We were just talking about what we'd done last weekend,” I finally settled on. “Nothing serious, no.”

“Hmm,” Mrs. Harris said, humming contentedly as I began to massage the tension out of her. I already knew exactly where I was going to need to focus the massage, no matter how often I told her that she was going to get a hunched back from swinging her grandchildren up into her arms so frequently, she was still going to keep doing that, probably for the rest of her life.

“So, what did you do last weekend, then?” she asked.

“What did you do last weekend?” I countered.

Mrs. Harris laughed. “The usual,” she said. “I took Emmy and Lenore out to the beach on Saturday, and we made a day of it, with a picnic and everything. Then on Sunday, Josh and I went golfing.”

I smiled a little. “Always the same,” I teased.

“Always,” she agreed. “But it's good that way. If you have a good day, there's no reason not to keep repeating it, that's what I figure.”

“That's a good way to live,” I said.

“What did you do this weekend?”

I frowned, trying to figure out how to answer. Before I could, the surprise of the century, Christian himself, poked his head into the room. “Sorry to interrupt,” he said, not sounding sorry at all.

Mrs. Harris' gaze was around to him in a flash. “Christian Wall?” she asked, sounding shocked.

Christian rubbed the back of his neck. “That's me,” he agreed, sounding sheepish.

“Oh, just wait until the girls at the club hear about this,” she said, shaking her head.

I grimaced. “I'm with a customer,” I told Christian coolly.

“Oh, don't mind me,” Mrs. Harris said. She grinned a little. “Actually, you're my one celebrity free pass. I told my husband that after reading that piece in Voyeur about your charity work. I can't believe all the things that you do to help those disabled children.”

If I wasn't mistaken, that was a hint of a blush on Christian's face. But he grinned, leaning his hip against the doorjamb. “I bet I'm sexier than your husband's celebrity free pass.”

“Oh, definitely,” Mrs. Harris agreed. She looked back at me over her shoulder. “You know Christian Wall? Is that what you did this weekend?”

It was my turn to blush. I didn't miss the innuendo in her words. “It's not like that,” I protested. “I know him. Mr. Wall has been in here a few times for a massage. But-”

“If you need to talk to him, don't let me stand in the way,” Mrs. Harris said.

“I did just want to borrow Gretchen for a couple of moments,” Christian said, playing up the charm factor. He winked at Mrs. Harris. “I'd be more than happy to have a portrait, or maybe a poster, sent over to your house for the inconvenience.”

“There's no inconvenience at all,” Mrs. Harris said, the traitor. She was practically shooing me out of the massage room.

I stalked out into the reception area, careful to close the door behind me. “What the hell was that?” I snapped. “You can't just show up at my work and-”

“You never gave me your phone number,” Christian interrupted. “I wasn't sure how else to contact you, except through the concierge desk at the resort, and that just seemed a little impersonal. And no one was going to buy that I needed another massage so s

oon.”

I snorted. “You were already pushing it, coming in two days in a row,” I agreed.

“I want to take you out again,” Christian told me. “On a proper date.” He frowned. “Okay, sure, the other night ended up being a pretty proper date, once I…” He rubbed the back of his neck again. Then, he laughed a little. “I'm not usually this nervous.”

I frowned, surprised by his raw honesty. “You're nervous?” I asked, raising an eyebrow at him.

Christian folded his arms across his chest. “I can't say that the last date was a resounding success,” he said. “I'd like to make that up to you if I could.”

I blinked, wondering if this was the same guy who was splashed across all those magazines that Mina loved to read. “How?” I asked.