“Friendly reminder—you have to pretend that you like me,” Chase snapped after a while, tap-tap-tapping his steering wheel with his perfect long fingers. I closed my eyes and breathed through my nose.

“I know.”

“Convincingly.”

“I could be convincing.”

“Debatable. There may be touching involved. Light patting in nonstrategic areas and so forth.” His eyes were still on the road.

“Are you out of your mind?” I hissed.

“Presently, yes, hence why you’re here. As a result, we’re going to have to play the loving couple.”

“We will. Now can you please, please be quiet? I’m doing you a favor. A huge one. Don’t make me regret it,” I finally barked, feeling dangerously close to falling apart. My face was hot, my eyes watery, and it felt like someone had punched my nose from the inside.

To my surprise, he zipped it.

We zoomed past Long Island, the Tesla’s quiet buzz the only background noise accompanying the drive. I closed my eyes, feeling my throat bob with a swallow.

I longed for a truce. For Chase to take a step back and let me gather my ragged self-esteem and frayed thoughts. For a sign what I was doing was the right thing and not destructive to both my heart and his family.

Most of all, I longed to run away. Somewhere far, where he couldn’t grab my heart with his poisonous claws again and devour it.

See, I had a secret I didn’t share with anyone. Not even Layla.

Sometimes, at night, I could feel Chase’s claws sliding across my heart, sharp as blades. I still wasn’t over him. Not truly. I didn’t even think it was love—there was nothing about Chase’s personality I particularly enjoyed.

I was obsessed.

Consumed.

Completely enamored.

Problem was, Missionary Ethan, I knew, would be kinder on my heart than Reverse Cowgirl Chase.

CHAPTER FOUR

CHASE

First thing I’d noticed about Madison Goldbloom when I’d hit on her in Croquis’s elevator? Her beautiful hazel eyes.

Okay. Fine. It was her tits. Sue me.

To anyone else, they were probably average, pleasant-looking tits. They were even modestly tucked inside a perfectly sensible, albeit visually offensive white turtleneck with a tacky lipstick pattern all over it. But they were so perky—so goddamn erect and round—I couldn’t help but note they were the perfect size for my palms.

In order to test that theory, I had to wine and dine her first. Since nature all but conned me to pursue her, I took Madison to one of Manhattan’s finest restaurants that same evening and spared no expense—nor compliment—for the sake of my palm-to-tit ratio research.

(Which turned out to be a success. Science, baby. Never failed.)

Madison was smaller than the average human being, which was preferable, seeing as I hated people, so the less there was of them, the better. Alas, this specific person was a honey trap. Because what she lacked in size, she made up for with enthusiasm. She was perky and charitable and got breathless when she spoke about things she was passionate about. She cooed at babies and patted dogs on the street and made eye contact with strangers on the subway. She was in-your-face alive in ways I wasn’t accustomed to or comfortable with, and that didn’t sit well with me.

As for her clothes . . . part of me wanted to take them off her because they were horrendous, and it had nothing to do with the sex part.

It was never supposed to be more than a fling. The thought of it exceeding the shelf life of a week hadn’t even crossed my mind. My relationships typically coordinated their expiration dates with my milk cartons. In my thirty-one years of existence prior to meeting her, I’d only had one girlfriend, and it had ended in a farce that reminded me that humans, as a concept, were faulty and unpredictable and, although unavoidable, should be kept at arm’s length.

Then came Madison Goldbloom, and poof! Girlfriend number two materialized. If we were being technical here, she didn’t earn the title. She stole it.

Mad and I went out the evening I’d met her (the no-fraternization rule didn’t apply since we technically didn’t work in the same company). She had very big, very brown-green-whatever eyes rimmed by brown and gold speckles, a pixie haircut that gave her a dramatic, will-slowly-steal-your-heart-if-you’re-not-careful Daisy Buchanan look, and lips so full and pillowy I got a semi every time they moved.

Which was every time she spoke.

Which was a whole fucking lot.

After I slept with Mad on the first date, we texted back and forth. She told me she didn’t normally sleep with first dates and that she would like to take it slow. Which, of course, made me want to sleep with her again almost immediately. I did just that. The third time we texted, she threw her rules out the window and began to play according to mine. Before I knew it, we got into a comfortable arrangement of eating dinner together, followed by having sex. This arrangement occurred frequently during the week. In hindsight, too frequently. It was the tits, and the fact that underneath her (I cannot stress this enough) truly horrid clothes, she wore sexy chemises and matching lingerie.

Perhaps I was not entirely without fault when it came to setting the tone for our extended fling. At some point, I made a strategic error. It made logistical sense Madison would have access to my apartment. Having her at my disposal was convenient, and buzzing her up constantly grated on my nerves. No emotions were involved while making the decision to give Mad a spare key. My housekeeper and PA had one, too, and I was not in danger of proposing to either of them. In fact, I changed PAs as often as I did underwear.

And just for clarification, I was a highly hygienic person.

As for occasionally taking Madison to the movies—I genuinely wanted to watch whatever we went to see. Sue me for being a Guillermo del Toro and Tarantino fan. It wasn’t like we cuddled in the theater or even shared popcorn (she poured a bag of M&M’S into her bucket of popcorn on our first outing to the movies. That should have been my first clue the woman was raised in the wilderness).

It took me five months to find out I was in a relationship. Mad was the person to point it out to me. She did it in a sly, adorable way. Not unlike a Care Bear with a butcher’s knife. Said her father was in town the week after the next and asked if I wanted to meet him.

“Why would I want to meet him?” I asked conversationally. Why, in-fucking-deed. Her answer made my whiskey go down the wrong pipe. The same Scottish single malt I’d been sipping at a friend’s party I’d taken her to, not because we were dating but because it was less hassle than making the journey to her place when I was done.

“Well, because you’re my boyfriend.” She batted her eyelashes, cradling her cosmo cocktail like she was a tourist trying to live her best Carrie Bradshaw life.

(Note to self: She was a tourist. She’d grown up in Pennsylvania. I should have checked if I could deport her back there, although at this stage, it had been way past fourteen business days.)

It was in that come-meet-my-dad moment that I realized I hadn’t screwed anyone else since I’d met Madison, and I didn’t have any desire to do so in the near future (voodoo vagina). And that we spoke regularly on the phone (even when we didn’t, technically, have much to say to each other). And that we had sex all the time (I was attached to a dick; enough said). And that I naturally assumed my weekend plans included her (again—I was attached to a dick).