My Fake Fiancée. Nancy Warren

back at David. “Are you kidding me? Look at these appliances,” she crooned, running her fingers over sleek industrial stainless steel. “Gas oven, perfect. And a six-burner stove.” The fridge was double-sided and if the pull-out freezer wasn’t large, she didn’t think that would matter. She intended to buy fresh and cook fresh. David could fill his entire freezer with ice cubes for all she cared.

      Clearly, Sarah hadn’t lied about David never using his own fancy kitchen. There was a sterility to the space that suggested not much cooking went on here.

      She opened the oven door, picturing her trays inside. Peeking into the fridge, she found it a bachelor cliché. “There’s nothing in here but booze and a few take-out containers.”

      He shrugged. “I’m not home much.” He seemed to enjoy her excitement as she dragged open every cupboard and drawer, gauging how much she’d have to buy and where she’d put her supplies. She was delighted at how relatively empty his storage spaces were and knew that wouldn’t last for long.

      “This is so perfect,” she said, looking up to find him regarding her with amusement.

      “You haven’t even looked at your bedroom.”

      “Who needs to sleep when you have a kitchen like this? Oh, the things I’ll be able to create in this space.”

      But she followed him down a short corridor and up a flight of stairs.

      “My bedroom,” he said, opening the first door. Ah, she thought, here’s where he spends most of his time when he’s at home. The bed was huge, and the room, although neat, sported stuff. Including a TV he could watch from his bed.

      He crossed the hall and opened the last door. “And your room.”

      Like everything else in this town house but his bedroom, her room had obviously been staged by a decorator and never touched since. It was done in neutral shades, contained a queen-size bed, a dresser, mirror, some not very interesting art on the walls and its own en suite. A neat stack of moving boxes on the floor told her her stuff had arrived okay.

      “It’s beautiful. Thank you.”

      “Don’t thank me. Remember, we’re helping each other out.”

      She looked up and saw him regarding her with a mixture of longing and frustration. He shoved his hands in his pockets. “There’s one more floor where I keep a home office.”

      “Okay.”

      A beat of silence ticked by.

      “You did good tonight. Thank you.”

      “You’re welcome. I enjoyed myself. They seem like nice people.”

      “They are.” He stood there, leaning against the doorjamb. “I wasn’t sure where you’d want your stuff, so I put the boxes in your room, but unpack however you like. My house is your house. I put the box labeled ‘bathroom’ right in your bathroom, but everything else is here.”

      “Oh, right. Good.” She was so busy thinking about how good he tasted that she’d forgotten she didn’t have so much as a toothbrush with her. Sarah, who thought of everything, had told her to pack all her stuff up and have it sent over to David’s.

      His gaze dipped to her mouth and she knew he was reliving their kiss just as she was. “You really serious about those rules of yours?”

      Oh, it would be so easy to shake her head, let herself go. So easy.

      And such a truly, monumentally terrible idea. Maybe, if she didn’t have to live here for the next couple of months, maybe she’d throw her own sense of what was right for her out the window. She’d take one step and be in his arms, then his bed.

      And tomorrow? He’d have a new partner. For all she knew, he played doubles. She really didn’t think she could stay in his guest room while he carried on his carefree bachelor existence. Not once she’d been intimate with him. She wasn’t built that way.

      So, with some regret, she nodded. “I’m serious.”

      He shook his head. “Okay, then. Good night.”

      She heaved a sigh of combined relief and frustration when he exited, leaving her alone in a tasteful, neutral guest room.

      She used up some of her restless energy in unpacking her suitcases, putting her clothes away in the closet and dresser. Then she organized the bathroom and unpacked her toiletries and prepared herself for bed.

      It was late, and she was tired but she wasn’t sleepy. She dug out one of her favorite cookbooks and crawled into bed with Chef Patricia Yeo. She read cookbooks the way some people read Dickens or Shakespeare. She could dip into the same books over and over again and always find something new.

      At last, she flipped out the light and settled herself in the big, empty bed. It had been a lot of years since Chelsea fell asleep thinking about kissing David.

      In truth, she wasn’t thinking about kissing. Her imagination had moved on. And she wasn’t anywhere near sleep.

      She sighed and punched the pillow.

      It was going to be a long couple of months.