Chapter 6
1089 Words
Dante
I ring the doorbell, mentally bracing myself. Tonight is pure strategy. A calculated performance to win better roles, impress the media, and charm the public. Jennie should be easy. Just another pawn in this game I’m playing.
But then the door swings open, and my first thought is...damn.
She stands in front of me, short and curvy in the kind of dress that makes my brain bluescreen. Her brown hair is pulled back in a lazy twist, her glasses slightly fogged from the warm air. She’s wearing girl-next-door makeup, and I should be unimpressed. I usually go for long legs, red lips, and dangerous smiles. Jennie is none of that.
And yet, my body reacts like she’s every fantasy I’ve never admitted to having.
She smells like strawberries. Sweet and warm. Innocent.
My c**k twitches. I grit my teeth.
Not helpful.
“Hi,” she says softly, a flush blooming high on her cheeks like a shy sunburn.
“Hey,” I reply, my voice gruffer than I’d like. “You look… good.”
She laughs nervously. “I feel like a cupcake. Is that good?”
“I like dessert,” I say, because I do. And tonight, I’m supposed to eat the cake and sell the fantasy.
She blushes harder. It’s irritating how cute it is.
I rest my hand on the small of her back as we head toward the car. Her body is soft. Her skin warm. She shivers under my touch. My jaw tightens again.
This isn’t supposed to be personal.
“Where are we going?” she asks.
“Somewhere worth being seen.”
“Fancy?”
“Fancy enough to get us trending.”
Her laugh is easy. Bright. I hate how much I like it.
I open her door and try not to look when her dress rides up her thighs. I fail. The flash of skin doesn’t help my already hard c**k. I grip the steering wheel and remind myself to stay cool.
She’s nothing. A means to an end. A soft, pretty, chaos gremlin of a means.
“So…” she says, glancing at me. “You fake-date a lot?”
I smirk. “You jealous already?”
“No. Just wondering if this is your side hustle.”
I snort. “If this were professional, you’d be signing an NDA and pretending we met on a mountain in Italy.”
She perks up. “Italy? Can we change the backstory to that?”
“Only if we’re drunk on red wine in every version.”
She grins. And I look away, irritated at how easy it is to talk to her.
She shifts in her seat. Her thigh grazes my hand.
I should move it.
I don’t.
“I’ve never been to a place where the menu has no prices,” she says.
“Tonight’s your welcome to capitalism’s elite circle. Hope you packed your fake confidence.”
“What if I order the most expensive thing on purpose?”
“Do it. I dare you.”
“You dare me?”
“Sweetheart, I don’t dare. I enable.”
Her breath hitches, and I feel it in my spine. f**k. The wedding date was fun. Easy. This? Not easy. I’m reacting to everything about her, and I don’t know why. Did I grow an attraction towards glasses overnight or something?
“You’re quiet,” she says after a beat.
“I’m thinking.”
“About?”
“You,” I say, too easily. Her eyes widen. I add, “Trying to decide if your dress is fake girlfriend appropriate or red carpet dangerous.”
She laughs. It’s light and flirty, and it shouldn’t make my pulse jump.
“You’re good at this,” she says.
“Yeah. I know,” I reply, hating that while I know what she is talking about, I don’t mean it.
She’s not supposed to make me forget that I’m acting.
But she is.
We pull into the restaurant. She looks up at the glittering lights and the sharp-dressed valet.
“Is this where they fold your napkin if you sneeze wrong?”
“Probably.”
“Good. I plan to sneeze a lot.”
I let out a short laugh. “Chaos suits you.”
The words come out too honest. I add quickly, “For the cameras.”
“Right. Publicity chaos.”
We sit in the car for a while. I watch her mouth move when she speaks. She bites her lip and my c**k throbs again.
Don’t get hard for the glasses and cardigan, girl.
I close my eyes and remind myself she’s just an accessory.
If I kissed her, would she melt?
Would she beg?
Fuck, why am I even thinking about that???
I open the door fast, letting it slam harder than necessary. Jennie jumps a mile behind me. Startled.
“Dante?” she calls as she steps out, struggling a bit with her dress.
I glance over. She’s flushed. Off-balance.
And still so f*****g cute it’s infuriating.
I start to say, “Let’s go,” but she fumbles a little trying to tug her dress down while stepping around the car. I pause.
Goddamn it.
I sigh and walk around, offering my arm. “Come on, chaos. Let’s not flash the valet.”
Her cheeks flame, but she takes it, her small hand wrapping around my bicep...or trying to. She is freaking tiny.
“You don’t have to help me,” she murmurs, eyes focused anywhere but on me.
“I do if I don’t want your public wardrobe malfunction going viral,” I mutter, mostly to convince myself this isn’t about the way she looks next to me. Small. Adorable. Like she was made to fit there.
My heart gives a stupid kick.
I ignore it.
Just hormones. Lust. A pretty girl in a short dress who smells like every teenage dream I ever had. That’s it.
I glance down at her again.
She’s blushing. Biting her lip. Trying not to smile too much.
I look away. Fast.
This is going to be harder than I thought...
I came here to build my image, manipulate the headlines, and use this girl to look like the world’s most eligible romantic lead.
She’s not mine. She’s not special. She’s a convenient distraction.
So why the hell can’t I stop thinking about her lips?
Why does she smell like strawberries and innocence?
Why do I already hate the idea of another man seeing her like this?
- Writer
