The Virgin Replay by Lauren Blakely
Chance
A few weeks later
I might not be an expert on fake dates, but I’m familiar with a few key guidelines since I do read my brother’s books from cover to cover. In Mister Benefits, when the hero needed a fake fiancée to pull off a business deal, he enlisted his female best friend. As part of the ruse, he booked a table at the best restaurant in the city for one of their dinners.
So, when Sierra tells me over text that her friends are using their miles to change her flight, I tell her I have more miles than anyone, and it would be my honor to upgrade her ticket.
Sierra:You don’t have to do that.
Chance:I want to. And no fake date of mine is going to sit in coach when I’m in first class. Also, my legs are too long for coach. So really, first class is the only way to fly with me.
Sierra:Twist my arm, why don’t you?
Chance:See you at SFO tomorrow. Can’t wait.
That’s how you treat a fake date. You make sure she travels in style.
* * *
I arrive at the gate early and scan the room for Sierra. As I look for waves of thick blonde hair, high cheekbones, and lush lips, my pulse surges.
A few seconds later, I spot her lounging in a leather chair, looking like she couldn’t possibly belong anyplace else but waiting for me in the first-class lounge. My pulse zooms from surge to skyrocket.
Thanks, attraction. This is going to be a hard trip.
There’s nothing fake about the way I react to her. But I’m going to have to fake my way through the next forty-eight hours and pretend I don’t want to share a room with her, strip her down to nothing, tie her up, pin her down, take her, have her, lavish her in orgasms.
When I reach her, I pull out my cool and calm persona, the one I use on the mound.
“If it isn’t the budding Cougars fan,” I say.
A smile brightens her face. “Close, but you haven’t convinced me yet, Chance.”
“But I will.”
And as hard as it may be to fake it with her, hard also feels pretty fucking good.
I haven’t felt good with a woman in a long time.
* * *
As the plane fills, the flight attendant brings us mango cocktails. We thank her, then I lift my glass, and Sierra does the same. “Here’s to weddings, to dates, and to never letting an ex see you sweat,” Sierra says.
I clink my glass to hers. “I’ll drink to that.”
We each take a sip, then set the glasses down in the console between our cushy leather seats in the second row. This is as good a time as any. I rub my palms together. “We have five hours on the plane. We should get our details straight in case anyone asks . . . so, is this our first date?”
She hums as if considering the question while she twirls the pink-streaked strands in her hair. “I think we probably went on a couple dates in San Francisco, don’t you think?”
I nod my approval. “We definitely did. Best dates ever, if memory serves?”
She tosses a sexy grin my way. “Of course they were. We hit it off. In fact, I think you asked me out just maybe a few weeks ago?”
“Damn right I did. It was that night I walked into your bar and ordered a scotch.”
“And after that you had the Wild Chemistry.” She lifts her drink, knocks back a little more.
I can’t stop staring at her lips on the glass. And then directly at her lips when she puts down the cocktail. Those lush pink lips. “And I felt some kind of wild chemistry. That’s what inspired me to ask you out that damn night. Something I’ve been wanting to do for a long time,” I say, spinning the tale of our first date that’s hardly a fable at all.
“I’d been wanting you to for the longest time,” she says, all smoky and sexy and so damn believable.
Why not go for broke? In this fake dating scenario, why shouldn’t our backstory be as electric as it could be? I tell the next chapter. “When you said yes, all I could think was—dirty dreams do come true. But we couldn’t even really wait for our date, could we?”
She runs her fingertips along her collarbone. “That’s right. I left work early. My manager took over.”
I pick up the thread and paint the next scene. “I took you to my place,” I say, my voice going lower as the temperature in me shoots higher.
She moves a bit closer, parts her lips, takes her time. “You could barely even wait till the door closed.”
This paint-by-numbers sex-capade is getting out of hand, and I fucking love it. “I’d only been fantasizing about it for the last year,” I say, my husky tone surely giving away my truth. But I’m not sure I care right now about anything but this fake story that feels deliciously real.
“And I was glad you didn’t waste any time. There’s something so wild about hot, up-against-the-door sex, don’t you think?”
Hell fucking yes. “So very hot and electric,” I say, wanting to have that with her now.
Tonight.
Tomorrow.
She runs the tip of her tongue along her teeth, licks her lips, then says, “The first of many times. It sure seemed like we couldn’t stop once we got started.”
“It’s a wonder we’re not fucking right now,” I whisper.
Yep. It’s the eighth wonder of the modern sex world.
“Can I interest you in a pineapple macadamia nut salad once we’re airborne?”
I blink, reconnecting with reality as I swing my gaze to the cheery, redhead flight attendant asking the question.
“Sure,” I say, my voice still a little rough from the dirty flirting.
“And for you?” the woman asks my partner-in-hypothetical-crime.
“Yes, please,” Sierra answers, and it sounds like she’s having a hard time clearing the fog too.
When the attendant moves on to the next row, my eyes connect with Sierra’s again. Hers seem to be flickering with heat. “But, no one’s going to be asking us about our fake sex life,” she says, with a light laugh.
“Yeah. That’d be way too personal,” I say.
She clears her throat. “I think we could just say you asked me out that night, we went out a few times, and we were really into each other.”
That feels true enough, but it’s nowhere near as enticing.
