Faking It. Stefanie London
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is why it’s perfect. I watch Rowan and Dom carefully, noting the way their eyes drift down to Hannah’s hand. “We were saying today that we’d like something special for the bedroom. Our old pieces don’t feel quite right anymore.”
That’s my girl. She’s finding her feet in the role now, which I know to be far from her real “true blue Aussie” life. I’ve met her family—her dad was a sergeant before he retired. Nice bloke. For some reason, watching Hannah in action brings back the surge of attraction I’ve been trying so hard to keep under wraps. What can I say? Capability gets me hot.
“Isn’t that right, Owen?” She looks up at me with those luminous brown eyes and I wonder how in the fuck I am going to get to sleep tonight.
“Yes, dear.” I say it with just enough of a patronising tone that I get a chuckle from Rowan. It makes me feel like a class-A dick, but it’s part of the act. Still, I can practically hear my grandmother scolding me. “Whatever you’d like.”
“We’ve got an opening for a new artist later this week. Why don’t you join us?” Rowan looks back to where Matt is throwing the steaks onto the grill. The sound of searing meat hisses into the night air. “I’ll put an invite into your mailbox.”
“We’re number six-oh-one,” Hannah clarifies, looping her arm through mine. “It’s nice to meet you. Enjoy your barbeque.”
The men turn their attention to their dinner and Hannah leads me inside the building.
“What do you think?” she asks as we’re in the elevator.
“Not much to go on, but the gallery thing is unexpected. They don’t seem the type.”
“Agreed.” She bobs her head. “And I know what I’m doing, okay? You don’t have to freak out every time I open my mouth.”
“You seemed a little nervous.”
“I wasn’t.”
I would call bullshit, but I cut her some slack. Hannah’s nerves only ever come from wanting to do a good job. This position means everything to her. She told me week one of our academy training that she was going to make detective by thirty-five and she’s a couple years ahead of schedule.
It’s a tough job and competitive to even get the opportunity. She’s probably thinking about all the things that could go wrong.
“If I seemed nervous it was more likely revulsion,” she adds. But her clipped tone is all bark and no bite. “From kissing you, I mean.”
“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Anderson,” I reply. “So long as you look the part when we have an audience, that’s all that matters.”
The way she kissed me is playing on my mind, however. It wasn’t the kind of kiss I expected, and she could easily have kept it low-key. Faked it.
But that wasn’t faking it, for either one of us.
I’ll have to do my best to ignore the burning chemistry and hope she’ll do the same. Because I have a feeling if Hannah asked me to fuck her senseless tonight, I’d have a really hard time remembering why it’s a bad idea.
Hannah
DAY TWO OF my fake marriage and I’m already questioning why I didn’t put up more of a fight when Max suggested bringing Owen back for this operation. I should have nipped it in the bud. But oh no, I had to go and think the golden boy’s shine might have worn off with absence. Mistake number one.
Mistake number two was not pushing the brother-and-sister undercover plan harder. But like any good public servant, I fell into line.
Mistake number three was kissing him. Well, kissing is kind of a soft description. I basically dry humped him against the fence.
Cringing, I shake my head. Last night I acted out of line—unprofessional. Owen made it clear years ago that he wasn’t interested and yet I threw myself at him the first chance I got. Pathetic. He’s probably having a good laugh about it.
But what about the fact that he was hard enough to drill holes?
Natural physical response. Endorphins. Adrenaline. Pick a reason.
It’s like the universe has designed the perfect situation to test me. This morning I burned my toast while getting lost in my imagination. Getting lost in a fantasy starring him. How am I supposed to do my job when I can’t even make a bloody piece of toast without screwing it up?
Ugh, don’t think about screwing. Don’t think about screwing. Don’t think about screwing...
“Whatcha thinking about?” Owen walks into the kitchen, a pair of tracksuit pants riding low on his hips and a white T-shirt clinging to every muscle in his chest. His blond hair is damp, which makes his blue eyes even brighter.
It’s borderline disgusting how attractive he is.
“I’m thinking about the case.” I busy myself by putting the dishes away from our dinner last night. “Obviously.”
“Obviously.” Amusement dances in his voice. “By the way, this arrived. I noticed it when I came back from my run this morning.”
He’s holding a crisp white envelope in the kind of paper that usually signifies something fancy—weddings, galas, charity balls.
He grabs a knife and slips it under the seal at the back, slicing the envelope open. Inside is a single piece of paper. It’s grey and industrial-looking, with rough edges and an asymmetrical shape but the fancy gold-and-white font screams money.
“A personal invitation from Galleria D’Arte to join Dominic and Rowan Lively in presentation of artist Celina Yang.” Owen looks up. “It’s a cocktail party tomorrow night.”
A cocktail party. Great. Unfortunately, the work budget doesn’t extend to fancy wardrobe purchases, and I’m pretty sure Owen doesn’t own a tux. Or is a tux more black tie than cocktail? I have no earthly idea.
“What should I wear?” I bring my thumb up to my lips, ready to bite down until I remember that I need to look the part. No more biting my nails.
“Cocktail dress?” Owen supplies less-than-helpfully.
“I don’t own any.” I have one dress that might pass at a nice restaurant since it’s black and simple. The last time I wore it was to a funeral. And if it passed muster at a funeral, does that mean it’s no good for a cocktail party?
Damn it. When it comes to outrunning the bad guys and clipping on handcuffs or diffusing a tense situation, I’m at the top of my game. But I don’t do parties and dresses and high heels. How am I going to convince anyone that I’m a trophy wife?
“You go. I’ll pretend to be sick,” I mutter.
“Do we need to go shopping?” Owen places the invitation on the kitchen counter and leans his forearms against the sleek marble. “We can get you something to wear.”
“That’s not an appropriate use of the budget and you know it.” Maybe I can slap on some fake leaves and pretend to be a potted plant, Scooby-Doo style.
“Don’t worry about the budget.”
I sigh. “Of course I worry about the budget. There are more important things to spend that money on and I can’t be seen taking advantage of the situation to fill out my wardrobe.”
“I’ll cover you.” When I raise a brow, Owen shrugs in that careless way of his. “I’m a consultant and I have expenses. No big deal.”
“I’ll pay you back,” I say. The thought of him footing the bill for a dress feels totally and utterly wrong, but if I’m being