Look at that, we have a funny man in our midst. I like that. Makes me feel comfortable.

“I knew you were an ass man.”

“How do you figure?”

“You just have that type of intense glare in your eyes. Screams ass man.”

“Wasn’t aware you could tell by someone’s glare that they’re an ass man,” he says while lifting his beer to his lips.

“Easily.”

“Funny.” He swallows some more beer, sets it down, and says, “Because asses are sexy and all, but I’m all about the neck.”

“The neck?” I ask, my loaded fork halfway to my mouth. “You, uh, you like to choke people?”

“No, but there’s something so sexy, so possessive, about being able to hold your girl at the nape of her neck.”

“Possessive, are we?” I ask, trying to feel this man out.

“I prefer to claim what’s mine.”

“Interesting. If that’s the case, why are you looking for a fake fiancée? Claiming what’s yours seems like an intense reaction, something you wouldn’t take lightly.”

“I don’t take it lightly. It’s why I haven’t been able to find the right person, because I take my dating life, or lack thereof, seriously. I’m not going to waste my time on someone if I don’t feel an innate demand in my body to claim them.”

“I guess that makes sense.” I study him. “So, then, why the fake fiancée? I told you I need someone to pretend to be my boyfriend for a reunion. What’s your reasoning?”

“We’ll get to that,” he says. “I want to know more about you first. I need to be comfortable with you before I tell you what I need.”

“Okay, as long as I can ask you questions, too.”

“A question for a question. That work for you?”

Easy to compromise—I’m surprised. He doesn’t necessarily give off that vibe, especially with all the possessive talk. I’m just going to make it known, that detail about him is a total turn-on. Not that I’m looking to actually date this guy or anything.

“That works for me. You ask first.”

“What do you do?” He takes a large bite of his burrito, and for being a man of “class,” he’s really munching down on that burrito.

“Currently in between jobs—”

“So, unemployed,” he cuts in, and I grow defensive.

“Not by my choice.”

“So, you were fired?” He lifts his brow in question.

I puff up my chest. “As a matter of fact, I was fired, and not because I wasn’t doing my job, but because my idiot boss believes she can get someone else to do my job for less pay.” With a sinister smile, I say, “I hope her business burns up in flames.”

He lets out a low chuckle. “Seems like poor management to me.”

“You could say that. My boss was one of my best friends growing up. A volatile friendship, very toxic. I could love her and hate her all in the span of one minute. She told me my firing wasn’t personal, and then the next day, she asked if I’d help her with our high school reunion she’s planning, you know, now that I have time on my hands.”

He winces. “Brutal.”

“Yes. So, she’s Satan’s daughter.”

“Seems like she did you a favor.”

I shake my head. “She screwed me over.” I smile. “But we can talk about that later. My turn to ask a question. What do you do?”

“Real estate,” he answers simply.

“That’s it? That’s all you’re going to say?”

He sips from his beer and then says, “Sorry, don’t have a tragic story to tell you about losing my job.”

“Are you mocking me?”

He levels with me, his eyes connecting directly with mine. “I’m trying to get you to agree to be my fake fiancée. Do you really think I’d mock you?”

“I guess not.”

“Next question. Are you attached to anyone romantically in any way?” he asks.

“If I were, I wouldn’t be trying to find someone to take to the reunion, now would I?” I take another bite of my burrito bowl and wish I wasn’t trying to be all dainty around this guy, because the chicken is on fire today and I want to shovel it in my mouth.

“So that’s a no. I need to hear you say it.”

What a formal fuck. “That’s a no. I’m not romantically involved with anyone.” I motion to my body and say in the voice of the old lady from Titanic, “It’s been eighty-four years since these breasts have been touched.”

He smirks and nods. “Good.”

“What about you?” I ask. “Seems like a stupid question since you’re looking for a fake fiancée, but who knows. Maybe you got yourself involved in some sort of drug deal gone sideways and you need a fake fiancée to get you out of the situation instead of throwing your wife to the wolves, so you find an innocent walker in the neighborhood to use as a decoy. Lure her in with promises of extra guac and good-smelling cologne.”

Seeming amused, he wipes his mouth and leans back in his chair before tossing his napkin on the table. “I fear what else is going on in that head of yours.”

“Trust me, it’s a place you don’t want to get lost in.” I grin and then shove some more chicken in my mouth. Sweet Chipotle gods, you outdid yourself today. Chef’s kiss.

“Apparently. And to answer your question, no, I’m not romantically involved with anyone. Don’t have time.”

“Ooo, workaholic, huh? A man who’s married to his work, always a catch for a single lady.”

“Haven’t found anyone to take me away from my work.” He finishes up his burrito, and if this guy were my bro right now, I’d offer up a high five for the annihilation of his meal. Color me impressed.

“So, you’re saying if you found the right woman . . . or man—”

“Woman,” he says, sipping his beer.

“Just double-checking. Can never be too sure. If you found the right woman, you would come home early?”

“If I found the right woman, I’d be far more interested in fucking her against every surface of my house rather than answering monotonous emails or buying a business partner a drink.”

Well . . . okay.

That’s . . . well, that’s information.

“So, you like fucking. That’s good to know,” I say awkwardly while nodding.

“Do you not enjoy fucking?” he asks, and I don’t think I’ve ever met someone like him. Bold, brash, domineering, but also equipped with a playful side if you can pull it out of him.

“Well, you know . . . since it’s been eighty-four years, I can’t quite draw up any experiences that would remind me what a pleasurable event fucking is.”

He slowly nods but doesn’t say anything after that. Instead, he studies me, and under that strong gaze, I feel naked, as if he’s stripping me down to nothing with every breath I take.

Good God.

“So, is it my turn for a question? I kind of lost track,” I say.

“Sure. Ask away.”

I nod, but my mind goes blank, because all I can think about is the way he’s staring at me with those take-no-prisoners’ eyes. They’re controlling, almost a mindfuck. Steadfast, unwavering, he speaks truth with his gaze, he destroys with his glare. The faint dusting of dark scruff on his jaw makes him exponentially more intimidating, and the way he has one hand casually draped on the table, almost as if he’s claiming this space, throws me off, and I can’t think of a damn thing to ask him.

“Why don’t you ask a question?” I ask, right before I shove a huge forkful of food into my mouth.

“Are you comfortable around me?”

Wasn’t expecting that question, even though I should have, since he seems to say what’s on his mind. There’s no skirting the truth with him.

I finish chewing, swallow, and then say, “I know I shouldn’t feel comfortable around you. You’re everything my mother has warned me about. Alpha workaholic who seems to get everything he wants. Dominant, holds nothing back, intimidating. You don’t scream family man, nor do you have ‘attentive boyfriend’ written across your forehead, but there’s also this air about you that makes you seem trustworthy, and I’m not sure if that’s comforting or terrifying.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.” He leans forward across the table and eats a chip for the first time. Neither of us have touched them, too engrossed in our conversation. “I’m going to need you to feel comfortable with me, Lottie. I’m going to need your trust.”