9. Rules Are Just Heavily Implied Suggestions

9

RULES ARE JUST HEAVILY IMPLIED SUGGESTIONS

LILA

F ake dating? What is this, some poorly written Hallmark romance?

First off, I’m insulted that my acting expertise is being wasted on something so…trivial. (Two years of theater is a lot, okay?) Second off, if Bristol thinks this fake relationship is a one-way shot to the Promised Land between my legs, he’s got another thing coming for him.

And he had the nerve to try and play hero!

Oh, I’m sorry. It’s all my fault Lila acted out. I’m Bristol Brenner, and I get whatever I want. I can do no wrong because I’m such a good guy. I always take accountability for my mistakes, and I have no flaws whatsoever.

I envy Bristol. I envy how easily things fall into his lap. I envy how he has the world in the palm of his hands. He wasn’t even reprimanded during that lecture. Even when he came clean about pushing me to the brink of madness, I was still the one being judged for my actions. And to make things worse, I’m the one who’s supposed to play nice and make this campaign work. I’m the one who has everything to lose. He doesn’t even need this job. He has a career that will support him all the way into retirement.

As soon as Ester dismisses us, I don’t hang around to watch Bristol gloat. I dart for the elevator, push the button for the first floor, and lean my head back against the cold wall with a deflated sigh. I need a drink. And a Xanax.

For some reason, the elevator doors screech shut comically slowly, and it isn’t until I spot Bristol making his way over to me like some horror movie killer that I frantically start to press the button to close the doors.

Shit, shit, shit! Don’t you dare come in here, Bristol. Don’t you ? —

The more I jam my acrylic nail into the button that clearly doesn’t work, the faster Bristol’s strides become, and he slips into the narrow opening before the doors eventually wham shut.

“Were you trying to close the door on me?” he asks, playing that stupid, all-American heartthrob card with a dopey smile.

Thankfully, I don’t think he notices the way my thighs squeeze together. An elevator is a terrible place to be with your ex-fling. Close proximity, the possibility of being trapped for all eternity—that kind of shit makes people feral. And I’m no better. I’m a weak, weak woman, easily conquered by some flirtatious banter or rock-hard abs. And Bristol’s two for two.

“Yep,” I snap, refusing to elaborate, practically gluing myself to the wall to stay away from him.

“Lils…”

“You almost got me fired. You do realize that, right? Or is it hard to think about anyone other than yourself?”

“How did you expect me to act when you were grinding on another guy in front of me?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Bristol. Maybe like a fucking adult? Maybe like a fucking adult who takes accountability for his actions and lives with the consequences instead of trying to change them?”

Despite there being plenty of space, Bristol crowds me, knowing full well that I have nowhere to run. “You’re the one who started all of this. You’re the one who decided to light the match. I just didn’t run.”

My heart leaps into my throat, obstructing the words trying to take shape. “You should’ve.” I can feel the floor drop beneath my feet as the elevator descends several stories, and all the movement is making me sick to my stomach.

“Not this time,” he promises, weaponizing that rumbly bass that he knows I can’t resist.

I gulp so loudly that it resonates off this steel-plated death chamber. “I know you’re used to getting what you want, but I’ll watch the world burn before I ever roll over for you,” I mutter under my breath.

“Then I’ll burn just to get close to you.”

Why does he have to say stuff like that? That’s not something a fake boyfriend says to his fake girlfriend. Oh my God. Am I hearing myself? How has the best opportunity in the world turned into the worst possible experience of a lifetime? I can fake confidence in front of the camera all day long. Faking real human emotions is outside my pay grade.

The pressure in my cunt mounts to a heartbeat, and I’m one bad decision away from pushing Bristol up against the wall and attacking his mouth with mine. Sweat beads on my hairline, my belly swoops with newly hatched butterflies, and my libido rallies all my other hormones into action. I feel like I can’t breathe. I feel like I can’t move. He’s staring me down, waiting for me to take the bait, teasing me with every lickable slab of muscle on his perfect, brawn-bundled body.

I have no control over what happens next—sensibility has left my mind and stuck a “GONE FISHING” sign to my skull. I reach past him, slam the Emergency Stop button, and cling to Bristol’s huge arm when the elevator rattles to a standstill. He grabs me like I’m as delicate as a doll, shields me with his body in preparation for the near-death experience awaiting us, and the elevator gives a few clanking jolts before nestling itself safely between floors.

When neither of us go dropping to our doom, Bristol’s fingers are still secured around my arms, the color of ivory while they crush my bones. “Jesus, fuck,” he breathes, tucking me against the front of his chest, his heart thudding so painfully hard that I can feel it against my own ribs.

I disentangle myself from him, keeping my hand between us like I’m backing away from a rabid animal, and I use my other hand to yank down the rumpled hem of my absurdly tight skirt. “We need to set some ground rules with this new… arrangement ,” I demand, disgust stilting my words.

“And you had to stop the elevator to do so?”

“Are you going to shut up and actually let me speak, or do we need to do this the hard way?”

What does the hard way entail? I have no idea, but it sounds threatening enough, and with how big Bristol’s head is, there has to be a chunk of brain ping-ponging around in there somewhere.

“First rule: no kissing,” I say, not missing the way his eyes drop momentarily to my lips.

Curse his delicious, chocolate-brown eyes.

“And how are we supposed to sell this fake relationship if I can’t kiss you in front of the cameras?” he shoots back, rerouting his gaze to my eyes and choosing to melt the legs I’m standing on instead.

Maybe it’s because this elevator is weirdly small, but Bristol looks dauntingly huge right now—a force to be reckoned with disguised in a tight shirt and ass-hugging slacks. Even with the added height from my heels, he still has to lean down to look at me, and the motion unwinds a curl of chestnut hair over his forehead. This elevator lighting isn’t even washing him out or anything! It’s giving him a stupid angelic glow .

“A peck on the cheek,” I counter.

“Are we saving ourselves for marriage?” he scoffs.

“A peck on the lips.”

“A kiss on the lips.”

A growl claws up my throat. “Yeah, right. I’ll let your spit infect my mouth when pigs fly.”

He leans his shoulder against the wall, crosses his arms over the bulk of his chest, and, unfortunately , looks sexy doing it. “You do remember we have to make this thing believable, right?”

Ugh. Stopping this elevator was an astoundingly bad decision. The more I try to fight off his invading pheromones, the deeper I find myself falling down a rabbit hole of charisma, sweetened promises, and unparalleled, leg-shaking, eye-rolling skill that no man should ever possess. Would I turn down a sloppy makeout sesh right now? No, no I would not. Would I mind him mounting me on the wall like a picture frame? Definitely not.

He’s slowly, slowly crumbling my resolve and trying to worm himself into the one place he’s lost the right to venture. My vagina. I’m talking about my vagina.

Since I’m not folding first, I step into the slim canyon of space between us, so close that I can smell the mintiness on his breath and the faintest traces of leather from his cologne. “Fine, but no tongue.”

“Won’t be a problem for me,” he insists, all self-assured and stuck-up and oh-so infuriating.

“It won’t be a problem for me, either.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He drags his tongue over his incisor, the corners of his lips tugging into a cocky grin. “If memory serves me correctly, you couldn’t last a day without my tongue inside you. ”

I roll my eyes. “Not the first time I had to fake something with you.”

A lie. I never had to fake anything with Bristol—especially not the Big O—and the hardened state of my nipples can attest to that. Come on, body! Back me up for once!

Bristol, thankfully, isn’t the only one being betrayed by their body because his eyes linger a moment too long on my tits, and his Adam’s apple bobs in his throat. “I was there, angel. If you’re going to lie, at least make it believable. Every moan out of your mouth was fucking bona fide.”

Angel? Seriously?

Being reminded about how orgasmic his tongue felt lodged in my cunt is not good for the state of my thong and the very flimsy skirt ready to slide up at any given moment. Heat kisses my cheeks, unraveling the coil in my lower abdomen, and I have to sideline the urge to revisit that glorious trip down memory lane.

I waggle my finger in his face. “No. Don’t do that. Don’t give me a cute nickname,” I scold, though there’s not an iota of intimidation in my five-foot-eight body.

Bristol’s dimple flashes in full force. “You think it’s cute?”

“I’m going to kill you.”

A groan rends the air. “You’ve been killing me, Lils. Granting me a swift death would be merciful at this point.”

How does he always know exactly what to say? And why does it make me tingle in places I shouldn’t tingle?

I sidestep his comment, trying to ignore the way it kickstarts my heart into early onset organ failure, and I reapply a mask of indifference to my face. “Second rule: no saying lovey-dovey shit like that.”

“I—”

I smush my finger against Bristol’s lips, more than aware of how brainless that decision was when I feel the heat of his mouth threaten to engulf the digit. His eyes enlarge to discs, and a slow-burning fire catches the oxygen between us, licking the ceiling of the elevator. I know I only have a few more minutes before maintenance is called, so I make sure to drive home the last—and most important—rule of all.

“And the third rule: absolutely, under no circumstances, will we ever have sex.”

Once I confirm that Bristol’s going to be a good boy and keep his unwanted opinions to himself, I slowly remove my finger, met by humorous disbelief rather than the disappointment I was expecting. The yeah, right look blaring louder than a scoreboard across his features unsettles the queasy pit in my stomach.

He leans into me to bridge the remaining space, studying me with a heavy stare, his umber eyes turning almost black in the pale light of the elevator. “You do know rules are meant to be followed, right?”

Regret swamps me almost instantly. Bristol’s got me cornered like I’m a defenseless field mouse trapped in the jowls of a bloodthirsty barn cat.

“Unlike you, Bristol , I know how to control myself,” I snarl, refusing to let him belittle me, forcing my sex-fueled thoughts to focus on anything other than him having his way with me right here in public.

I think I’m clinically insane to want my brains fucked out because one, I hate the male species, and two, I rebuke any form of emotional intimacy.

His arms shoot out to sandwich me on either side—the hard planes of his body mere inches away from me—and I feel arousal stain my underwear. My legs are jelly, lust blurs the edges of my mind, and every one of my synapses seem to misfire from the proximity.

He doesn’t touch me, although the clench of his bicep tells me he wants to. “I envy you, Lila. Because I’d give anything— and I mean anything —to stop thinking about you for a single second of the goddamn day.” His voice is barely audible even in the silence, the words chafing his throat like they hurt to speak.

So much for rule number two.

I think about you more than you possibly know. I think about the life we could’ve had together…the life I still fantasize about. I think about the taste of your lips; I think about the solace your hug brings; I think about the warmth of your hand in mine.

All this pent-up anger and resentment begins to morph into something manageable—something reminiscent of forgiveness, weathered by exhaustion. I may never know why Bristol ended things the way he did, but I can’t ignore the tireless lengths he’s gone to make things…not right, per se…but better . I want to grab his face in my hands, kiss him with raw abandon, feel those fireworks re-electrify every nerve in my body.

Bristol’s chest heaves with contemplation, his eyes skirting the curve of my lips, and I foolishly think he’s about to obliterate rule number one completely before the elevator doors ding open. Our little rendezvous is cut short by a disgruntled-looking maintenance man, and we both spring apart, blood welling under the thin skin of my cheeks as I brush my hands down my skirt. I step out of the elevator and apologize meekly.

That could’ve ended badly. Like worse-than-being-stuck-in-an-elevator-for-twenty-four-hours badly. Every time I think I’ve got these pesky feelings under control, Bristol snaps my resolve in half with his big, masculine hands.

Bristol begins to walk off in the other direction, and surprisingly, I’m the one chasing after him this time. Before he reaches the exit, I call out to him, suddenly hating the spaciousness of the first floor, missing the excuse that stupid metal trap gave me to be close to him. “Thank you for dinner the other night,” I say, a wellspring of emotion disgorging in my chest.

He looks over his shoulder with his hands stuffed in his pockets, and a smile ghosts over his lips—lips that were inches away from reminding me just how badly I want to start over. “Anytime.”

I give a slight nod and start walking toward the other exit, but it’s his turn to stop me, and my heart secretly flutters when he does.

“This might all be for show, Lila, but I’ll always take care of you.”

He’s not fully facing me—his side profile’s shrouded in a grey haze from the midafternoon sun—but I wish he was. And then, without a second thought, he steps out of those swinging double doors, leaving me lonelier than I’ve felt in a long time.