“No idea,” he says. “But whatever it is, we need it. We can’t let these douche canoes have access to lube and cock rings or, better yet, Nerds Clusters.”

I gasp and clutch his shirt. “Do you think they’d do that?”

In a low, menacing tone, he says, “I have no fucking idea, but I’ll be damned if they gain access to them. So are you ready to annihilate?”

“Ready,” I say, grateful that I have Wilder at my side for this.

“Then let’s get suited up.”

Once we’re given our wet suits, we kick off our sandals. I’m wearing a one-piece bathing suit because I had no intention of wearing a two-piece in front of my coworkers. Wilder’s dressed in a pair of black swim trunks—not surprised by the color choice—and a black T-shirt.

And today is the first time I’m seeing him with his hair somewhat styled, which I think is funny, since we’re going to get it wet anyway. But he put some pomade in it, making the longer strands go in all different kinds of directions. Very messy, very, dare I say, hot?

Let’s not go there; that’s only asking for trouble.

“Are you going to need help with your wet suit?” he asks as he pulls his shirt up and over his head, revealing his carved upper torso.

Um…excuse me?

No, this can’t be right.

I ordered a fake husband who was into improv, not the moody GQ model with the ripped chest and stacked abs.

Forgive my wandering eyes, but does this man live in the gym?

I guess he really does have time to do whatever he wants, because I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone this fit in person. Broad chest with rounded shoulders that meet well-toned arms. His pecs are flat but still pop off his chest like a swimmer’s. The muscles along his rib cage ripple under the early morning light, and his stomach is stacked with individually carved abs, one right on top of the other. There’s a small patch of hair that’s under his belly button, leading down to his waistline, and the tattooed rings on his arms are the only ink—from what I can tell—on his body.

“Scottie?”

“Huh? What?” I ask, snapping my eyes up to his, where I find him smiling at me.

“You’re staring.”

My cheeks flush, and I look away. “Was I? Uh, sorry. I’ve just, um, I haven’t noticed, I mean, I’ve never seen…” I let out a breath and then look up at him, feeling defeated. “You have nice muscles.”

His lips quiver, his eyes sparkle, and I can see him wanting to laugh, but he holds back, staying in character as much as he can. “Thanks, Pips. You have great legs.”