The next morning, Chelle had almost convinced herself that she could totally hide in her room for the rest of her life. Who would blame her? She hadn’t been herself last night. She’d been…someone totally else. It was like she’d had a super horny, kinda-but-not-really kinky out-of-body experience and had been so turned on by the idea of Nash hearing her get off that she’d gone all bossy on him and told him how to jerk off.

Even worse, she wanted to do it again.

Well, not exactly that. She wanted to do more. So much more. Like all of the more.

How in the hell was she supposed to keep that bit of truth off her face when she walked out of her bedroom? As Karmel always said, Chelle’s face wasn’t just an easy read, it was like an audiobook that someone had turned up all the way, then broke the volume button and thrown it into the harbor.

The dogs whined at her bedroom door, the one she’d quadruple checked was closed, and gave her the doggie equivalent of the gotta-go-right-now dance.

That was it!

Dog walking took precedence over talking. Right? Right.

After that?

She’d figure it out. She always did. A woman didn’t hit her forties without getting a master’s degree in personal disaster management.

Keeping her head down, she hustled out of her room and headed straight for the dog leashes hanging from a hook by the front door, Mary and Groucho happy yapping at her ankles the whole way. That’s when Sir Hiss meowed from the kitchen, drawing her attention and completely blowing her perfect(ish) plan.

Nash stood in the archway dividing her tiny kitchen from the foyer, a skillet in one hand and spatula in the other. Instead of last night’s gray sweatpants hanging low on his hips, he was wearing a pair of jeans that highlighted the mouth-watering power of his rock-hard thighs and a navy Henley that made his eyes seem even more blue. The sleeves of his shirt were pushed up and showed off just enough forearm to make her mouth go dry.

“Going somewhere?” he asked without any of the heat making his gaze spark.

Words. She needed to make words. Make words? How about use words?

Holy cow, and you call yourself an author?

Yes, she did. Writing and speaking with the guy who’d tapped into some sexy boss part of herself she didn’t even know she had were not the same thing. One made sense. The other was about as logical as the marriage requirement in her dad’s will. That little reminder brought her brain back to the reality of the situation—she had a fake husband for a very limited time of one month so that she could stop her asshole uncle from closing the Finch Foundation.

That was all.