Chapter 14

Stella squeals and jumps toward me, folding me in her arms so quickly that I don't have time to react.

I'm just surrounded in warm, soft Mom and it settles somewhere deep inside, soothes wounds so buried in my soul that I forgot they existed at all.

I inhale, commit her scent to memory and then get it together enough to hug her back.

But it's only for a moment because then she's bouncing away, moving over to King and hugging him tight. "My baby's engaged! I can't believe it. When were you going to tell me?" She cups his cheeks in both palms, turns his head from side to side as she kisses both of them. "I'm so happy for you."

King's eyes hit mine over his mom's shoulder.

They're wide and panicked and?—

Shit.

Right.

This was a stupid idea.

I'd better come clean. Right now.

I open my mouth, but Kingston beats me to it.

"Mom," he says. "It's new—really new"—his eyes flick to mine and away—"so I'd appreciate it if you give us some time to settle."

Stella's head bobs up and down. "Of course. Of course." She mines zipping and locking her lips. "I didn't see a thing."

Only my wedding dress.

God, how could I have been so dumb to have left it in the closet? Hung up and zipped away in the garment bag, yes. Not out of sight, but clearly out of mind.

Ugh.

And why had I left my ring at Phillip's place?

At least that would be helpful in this farce of a situation.

A farce I can't allow to continue.

Dammit.

And I really like Mama Bang.

"Stella," I begin.

"Where's your ring?" she asks like she plucked the word from my mind. "I'd love to see it." She reaches for my hand. "My King has great taste. I bet he did really good."

I freeze.

Because, swear to God, this woman has mind reading abilities.

I think ring, she fixates on ring.

Either that, or a ring is the next obvious conversational topic that comes when discussing an engagement.

Even a fake one.

A throb begins in my temple.

Right.

This has clearly gone too far.

Stella's a nice woman and I need to come clean.

Only when I open my mouth to tell her that my ring is at my ex's house because I couldn't stand the sight of it on my finger, didn't want the reminder of Phillip—even though I could have sold it for a pretty penny—King beats me to the punch.

"It's getting resized, Mom," he says.

"Oh." The disappointment in her tone slices through me and I bite the inside of my cheek, trying to resist channeling my Big Daddy vibes?—

Can you get the kid a Happy Meal? Somebody get the kid a Happy Meal!

Can you get the MIL an engagement ring? Somebody get the MIL an engagement ring!

"Stella—"

She spins toward me, moving across the kitchen with speed despite her little legs, sweeping me into another hug that has my insides shuddering.

Such a beautiful feeling to be held like this.

King can't possibly know how lucky he is.

"I saw the dress bag," she whispers. "But I didn't peek." Then she winces, her cheeks going pink. "Okay, I had a little peek. A tiny peek." A glance over her shoulder, voice dropping so that King can't hear. "That lace on the top is absolutely beautiful."

My heart squeezes.

Hard.

Because—

"That's my favorite part too."

Her face is gentle. "I can't wait to see it."

A lance of pain.

Because she won't.

Still, I force a smile, hug her back when she wraps her arms around me.

"Don't worry," she says into my ear. "This will be our secret?—"

She breaks off in a yawn.

"Good grief," she says, pulling back. "You can't take me anywhere now, can you?" She pats my cheek then goes over and kisses King's. "I think tomorrow will have to be pie day, if that's okay with you?"

"Of course, Mom," he says, wrapping an arm around her shoulders, guiding her from the room.

"I'll just help with the dishes—" she begins.

"No, you won't," I tell her. "You'll get some rest and King will do the dishes." I wink. "And maybe I'll deign to help him."

"Careful, princess," he says, narrowing his eyes, though his mouth is curved. "You wouldn't want to start getting me prickly."

"I hear your warnings, spreadsheet guru," I tell him, "and I don't heed them."

His lips quirk.

I bite back my own smile.

"Goodnight, sweetheart."

Blinking, I see that Stella's eyes are amused and her smile is wide and she's noted every bit of this conversation.

Dumb, probably.

Especially since this can't continue.

But…

Bantering with King is fun.

So, even though I should end the madness…

I don't.

I just pick up a towel, wave it at him after he's shown his mom to the hall.

"You wash, I'll dry."

Suddenly he's in my face, hands on my hips, body pressed close.

My pulse jumps and my lungs hitch, my stomach going all fluttery. "What are you doing?" I whisper.

A hand tracing up my side. "What I was going to do before the doorbell rang."

"We should talk about this," I murmur as he slides that big, warm hand along my torso, inching it higher and higher.

"Talk about what?"

I wince, and he immediately loosens his hold, that big hand gentling even though that's not what had me grimacing.

"No," I whisper, taking his hand, drawing it back to my side. "You didn't hurt me." The heat of his palm sinks through the material of my shirt, and I go on, "I meant about your mom thinking—" My eyes slice to the side, searching for any sign of her, and even though I don't find any, I drop my voice further. "—we're engaged."

"Hmm," he murmurs, head dropping, his beard catching on the strands of my hair.

That sounded like an awfully casual hmm, considering the predicament we're currently in.

One that's my fault.

I sigh, but it's not just because it's my fault. It's also because…his head is still dropping and now his lips are brushing the top of my ear.

"It'll be okay," he murmurs. "She'll go on to visit one of my siblings soon and I'll slip in the news of our ‘breakup' when she's suitably distracted." His tongue flicks out and I shiver, my body melting against his. "The heartbreak alone will buy me a reprieve long enough that I'll owe you."

Somehow, I don't think that's possible.

"And in the meantime…" He trails off, body surrounding mine, those lips moving, drifting down to my earlobe, tongue flicking out to taste me.

"Oh," I murmur, head falling back, giving him access to my throat.

"Christ, you're beautiful," he mutters against my skin.

"King." My hands drop to his shoulders and I don't know if I'm trying to push him away…

Or holding on for dear life before I beg him to use my body any way he wants.

Hot breath raises goose bumps on my nape, my arms. "And you smell like sugar and spice and Everything cookies."

My mouth turns up, nails kneading into his flesh, and I say, "You smell good too."

He lifts his head, eyes dancing. "Who said I said you smell good?"

I gasp in mock outrage, narrow my eyes. "How dare you?—?"

And that's when he dips his head, lips coming over mine.

More than a brush this time—they're firm and confident, and paired with his palms on my body, his hips pressing me back into the counter, his tongue slipping into my mouth to tangle with mine, it's oh so good.

I moan softly, hands going to his head, tangling in the strands of his hair, and?—

It's a match into gasoline.

Explosion.

Not thinking.

Just feeling.

Needing. Wanting.

His hand comes beneath the hem of my T-shirt and I arch back, breaking the kiss, his name on my lips.

A growl.

His mouth finding mine again?—

"I'm just going to grab another one of those cookies before I head off to bed—oh!"

We freeze, lungs heaving, mouths a hairsbreadth apart.

I manage to tear my gaze from King's molten blue one, see that Stella is grimacing as she tries to creep out of the room.

Then my eyes go back to King's.

He sighs, looks so put out that I can't help but giggle.

His expression does something wonderful then, something that settles in that same fissure his mom's hug began to heal earlier, drawing the edges closer together, filling it in. Then he cups my cheek, brushes his lips over my forehead, and retrieves the container of cookies.

"I'll be back," he mutters. "And then I'll wash and you dry."

This is awkward.

It's a couple of hours later, and I've delayed bedtime as much as possible.

But my inbox is cleared.

The gala is as organized as I can have it at this moment.

And…

It's getting late.

So, there's no more delaying.

Which brings me to now—standing in King's bedroom feeling awkward as I try to navigate how sleeping next to him for real (or really, for fake).

Thankfully, he does something to break the taut silence and us staring silently at each other.

He disappears to his closet.

Smooth? Maybe not.

But effective for breaking the bizarre staring contest? Definitely.

A few moments later, he comes back into the bedroom and walks over to me. It's not until he passes what he retrieved over to me that I realize what he's brought out. And…I melt a little.

Because I remember the sweats and tee he gave me that night, remember being covered in his scent, in the soft fabric that had once adorned his body.

I remember how it made me feel.

How safe it made me feel.

So, even though my bag with my clothes is currently shoved into a corner of his closet—my cozy pjs and socks waiting for me—I just take the T-shirt and disappear into the bathroom, thankful that making that walk only hurts if I step the wrong way.

I'm getting better.

Slowly and steadily.

And I'll keep going.

It's the only thing I know how to do.

I close the door behind me, peel off my pants, my shirt, my bra, but leave on my underwear and socks before I pull King's tee over my head.

Spice and male.

Kingston.

Safe.

I inhale deeply, hold that scent in my lungs, committing it to memory.

Then I get it together enough to unzip the toiletry bag I stashed in here earlier, to wash my face—and the makeup that's currently covering up the remnants of the bruises Phillip gave me. I brush and floss and slap on moisturizer and hand cream.

With nothing else to delay me, and knowing that King likely needs to use the bathroom for whatever evening ablutions he partakes in, I leave the awkward-free space of the bathroom and go back out into his bedroom.

Immediately, his eyes hit mine.

Then slowly drift down.

Hot. Liquid.

That stare.

Or maybe that's the space between my thighs.

But he doesn't say anything as he inclines his head to the bathroom, voice on the right side of growl—because I feel it between my legs again—when he asks, "You done in there?"

My heart is thudding against my rib cage, but I manage to exhale, to whisper, "Yes."

He pulls back the covers, and I find that my stare's doing some drifting of its own, dragging over his bare chest, over the sweats that hang low on his hips.

I want to trace along the waistband with my tongue, want to…whoops and push them down.

I want…

Well, I want.

He touches my cheek and I jump, so focused on the heat blooming in my abdomen that I don't realize he's moving closer, that he's near enough to hold, to stroke, to lick.

I shudder.

But he just cups my jaw, tilts my head up.

"I think it's time for you to go to bed, princess," he murmurs.

For us to go to bed please.

And to not sleep.

For hours.

"You've had a long week," he says, voice soft, calloused thumb brushing lightly over my skin and making me shiver.

I exhale, though, table those words and just nod. "Yeah," I agree, gently touching the bruise still forming beneath his eye. "You too."

A called-off wedding. A rescue—or two. And now a fake engagement.

We're going to need plenty of sleep to handle all of that.

Gentle blue eyes.

A palm flattening on my cheek.

He leans close.

I hold my breath, wish and want swirling in my belly, and?—

He drops his hand and disappears into the bathroom.