I squeeze my thighs together, continuing to take in his chiseled features.

Why haven't I ever been kissed like that before?

Oh gosh, this is so bad.

I cannot be falling for him.

He veers onto the expressway and catches me ogling him. He smirks as he says, "I think we need to get to know each other, Georgia. If we're going to fool my parents and everyone else, we need to know stuff."

"Okay," I reply, agreeing. It makes sense if I'm going to be his fake wife.

He turns his dimpled smile on me, asking, "How old were you when you lost your virginity?"

I gasp. "That's not your business."

"I think it's something every husband knows about their wife. Wouldn't you think? No secrets?" he challenges.

My pulse creeps up. Is this guy for real?

"Come on, Georgia, spill it," he orders.

I turn it on him. "How old were you?"

He doesn't hesitate. "Fourteen."

I blurt out, "You were fourteen years old?"

He shrugs. "Yeah. What's the big deal?"

"It just seems very young to me," I claim.

He grunts. "I'm a dude. That's what we do."

"A dude?"

"What? You've never heard that word before?"

I try to hold my smile back but can't. "No, I just never imagined Mr. Cartwright calling himself a dude."

He leans closer, claiming, "I'm not the stick-in-the-mud you probably think I am."

"I never said that."

He grunts. "Spill it, Ms. Peach. How old were you?"

I put my hands over my face and moan. "Why are we talking about this?"

"I told you. Now you have to tell me," he asserts.

I cave. "Fine. I was nineteen."

He gives me a look like he already knew that.

I ignore his reaction and change the subject. "What's your favorite color?"

He wiggles his eyebrows. "Blue. Like your eyes."

My flutters take off, but I reprimand, "Are you going to be sweet-talking me this whole month? Because it's annoying."

He chuckles. "I'm the annoying one? Isn't that more like your personality? To sweet-talk people so you can manipulate them?"

"Manipulate them?" I question, insulted.

"Okay, wrong word. But you know what I mean, Little Miss Sunshine."

I give him a dirty look.

"You can't even be pissed at me without looking cute," he states.

My butterflies multiply.

He inquires, "What's your favorite color?"

"Yellow."

He grins. "I knew it."

"How?"

Arrogance washes over him, and I curse myself for the zings I get flying through my core. He answers, "Yellow like sunshine."

I slap my hand on his chest. "Stop with the sunshine talk."

"Why? You're like the happiest person I know. Unless it's an act?" He cocks an eyebrow.

Hurt, I declare, "No. It's not an act. Is that what you think I am? Fake?"

"Not at all."

"I feel like you're degrading me when you say it."

He locks eyes with me. "Georgia, I'm not degrading you."

"You aren't?"