Page 7 of Fake Fiancée Bear's Enemies-to-Lovers

But I can think well enough to recognize he’s trying to be sensible. “Okay,” I say in a tone much softer than before, “let me just go get that money. It’s over in my den if you want to go with me.”

My den is like the rest of the house, but all the furniture is antique, and worth a hefty amount for those who know how to price such things. I always love the room because it is filled with memories. My dad’s favorite chair that he used at his own desk is my most prized possession, and behind it on the wall is a painting that is probably the piece with the lowest market value in the whole house. It’s my painting of my cat, Cornelia, from when I was thirteen.

Lucas smiles as I walk over to it. “Wow, I like that one.”

I smile with my back turned to him, but my voice is serious. “Yeah, it’s done in the style of the old masters, you know, Garfield, Felix the cat, Tom and Jerry.”

I pull at the picture and it swings out to reveal a safe. Lucas sighs behind me. “That’s a bit obvious.”

Why does he have to sound like he’s lecturing a dumb little girl every time he talks to me? I fight back a nasty response, though. “Maybe, but not many people are trying to run off with a Madeline, circa 2014.”

I put in the code quickly and scanned my fingerprint. “You see, I’m not so dumb as to have a safe that isn’t state of the art. My family uses some very skilled people for our asset protection.” I wing the door open and reach for a smaller but still substantial lock box. “Here we go.”

Lucas watches me set it on my 1932 French style mahogany writing desk. “I don’t think all the money in that box of yours would buy that desk.”

Is there disdain in his voice? My anger flares up, but I remind myself that this arrangement with him is going to help a lot of other people. “It belonged to my great grandfather. It was my dad’s after that.” I count out thirty thousand dollars and put it in a big manilla envelope and hand it to him. “And no, this probably would not cover the cost.”

He takes the money and then, he grabs a paper from my desk and cuts a strip from it with scissors that are older than me. “To measure your finger size.”

“Oh, well, let me get this put away.” I hurry and get the box back in the safe and the safe door closed. My heart is pounding. My picture of Cornelia swings back into place and I try to calm down. “Okay, here.” I hold out my ring finger.

He moves closer and holds my hand so gently as he wraps the strip around my finger. Are my hands shaking? He’s so damnclose I can smell his cologne. He wears cologne? It smells like the woods and smoke and...

“All done.” He lets my hand go.

“Thank you.” l look at him and he holds my gaze.

“You’re welcome.”

We stand there not moving apart. I feel so awkward as time seems to stop and rush all at once. I try to breathe and calm my heart down, but my body heats up all the same.

And I kiss him.

Just like that.

It starts soft, but in an instant his hands come up and he holds me close, and the kiss becomes hungry. Our bodies press together so every contour matches. He leans me into the desk, but I shift and steer him towards the loveseat in the corner.

Our hands are everywhere on each other. I feel his chest through his shirt and my body aches to feel his skin against mine. I go lower at the same time his hand goes between my legs and I gasp, my mouth opening in a sigh where I’m kissing the curve of his neck.

This is like a dream, beautiful and raw and fanciful. I grab my shirt and start pulling it up, wanting to feel his fingers brush over my skin directly. I’m feeling like a mad woman, out of control, and then I see my painting again. Cornelia in the sunlight. A little girl’s breezy artistic dream.

A dream.

A little girl’s dream.

Not reality.

I stop and take a step back, almost falling onto the loveseat but miraculously avoiding that humiliation. I lower my shirt and pull in a ragged breath and then, two more. My pulse slows. I stare at Lucas with a mixture of apology and desperation.

“You’re right,” he says, “this isn’t a good idea. We just got worked up.” He pulls my shirt down the rest of the way and straightens his clothing.

I hadn’t said anything, but he understood. I can only nod.

“I’ll call you tomorrow, let you know about progress on the ring.”

I nod again. “Okay.” I breathe it out, softer than a whisper.

“I’ll show myself out.”