Counterfeit Love Read online

He was someone who twirled his spaghetti. It was something I had no reason to notice, let alone think about. Since I was someone who cut mine up like I was still a little kid. I didn't like the potential for having to slurp the noodles. I didn't like the notion of pasta splattering on my carefully chosen clothes. I was neat and cautious and very aware of how I came across to others. It went to say that Finch was the opposite to all of that.

  "I very much doubt that," I told him, carefully cutting half the stack of pancakes into little triangle pieces, pouring the syrup only on the cut section.

  "You think so lowly of me?" he asked, pressing a hand to his heart. "I'm crushed, love, crushed."

  "You'll recover," I told him, rolling my eyes, and taking a bite.

  "Now, that's the sound a man wants to hear when he buys a woman dinner," he told me, making me realize I'd let out a little moaning noise. But just a little one. Barely audible. Finch had the hearing of a dog.

  "You're not paying for this," I told him.

  "I sure am," he countered.

  "No, you're not. I pay. I always pay."

  "Funny, that. Because I always pay when I'm having a meal with a woman."

  "Well, you are trying something different tonight," I told him.

  Free meals were unspoken contracts. They came with expectations. Ones I had absolutely no intention of fulfilling.

  Ever.

  It wasn't even a remote possibility.

  "Want to bet I can make Shirley give me the bill instead of you?" he asked, eyes dancing because he knew he had me there.

  When it came to charm, I had none to speak of. He had it in spades.

  "Don't look so freaked," he demanded, voice a little softer than his words. "I don't expect shit from you. Except the pleasure of your company," he clarified. "Besides, don't social... what is the word I am looking for?"

  "Mores," I supplied. "Social mores."

  "Yeah, those things, they say that the person who invited the other out to a meal pays for the meal. So, there. You can't argue with that."

  He knew I couldn't either.

  Because he was right.

  Because there was no arguing with logic.

  Unless you were an idiot, of course.

  But I doubted anyone would call me that.

  So I ate my pancakes.

  I answered a couple more benign questions from him. And then I said nothing when the bill was dropped--on my side this time--and he reached to pull it over toward himself.

  "We are supposed to be discussing business," I told him as he put a wad of cash into the book, handing it off to Shirley as she passed, then moving to stand.

  "I never said that," he shot back, shrugging.

  "No, but it was implied."

  "Was it implied, or did you assume?" he asked, giving me one of those devilish smirks again because he knew he had me.

  I had assumed.

  Anything else simply hadn't crossed my mind.

  "Come on, dollface," he invited, holding an arm out but not reaching for me. "I need a cigarette. You can grill me outside," he told me as I slid out of the booth. "What?" he asked when we moved outside and away from the front door, and he reached for a cigarette. I guess I must have given him a look. "I thought the issue with smoking was me burning up the money."

  "Well, yes. But it is bad for you, you know. Any child knows that."

  "You're worried about me, huh?" he asked, pulling out a lighter, flicking it open, gaze slipping away for a short moment as he lit the tip, then sliding over to me as he took a drag. It shouldn't have been fascinating. In fact, it should have been disgusting. Smoking disgusted me as a rule. The way it stunk. The way it would cling to my hair and my shirt, even hours later. Yet I couldn't seem to look away. "Want me to live a long, healthy life?" he added when my brain seemed completely struck dumb. It was an entirely new phenomena, but there was no denying it.

  "Yes, I am quite concerned with your health. That is why I am threatening to sic one of this country's most vicious criminals on you."

  "Oh, but only if I don't want to work with you, right, darling?"

  "Right," I agreed.

  "But if I do work with you, you want me to live a long, healthy life, don't you?"

  "Only to keep providing seed money for the mission."

  "You sure about that?" he asked, lazy smile pulling at his lips.

  "Yes," I told him, arms crossing over my chest. A literal physical guard. Why, I wasn't sure. Maybe because this guy whose life I knew next to nothing about seemed to get under my skin like no one had in a long, long time.

  "How do you do that?" he asked.

  "Do what?"

  "Lie to yourself like that," he clarified, taking another long drag, causing his scar to catch the light even more. I had the strong, unexpected, wholly absurd urge to reach out and run a finger along it, wanting to feel the smoothness on my fingertip. The urge was so strong that I curled my hand into a tight fist, not trusting myself.

  "I'm not lying to myself."

  "Come on, now, you know you like me," he said, eyes dancing.

  "I don't even know you."

  "Still, you're intrigued."

  "You have a big ego."

  "You're trying not to answer me."

  "You didn't ask a question."

  "Why don't you admit that you are intrigued by me, dollface?"

  "Do you obsessively use pet names because it is impossible for you to remember women's names?" I asked, not sure I could lie convincingly, but also unwilling to admit the truth. I was intrigued. And more than professionally. Even if that made no sense whatsoever.

  Finch flicked the cigarette toward the lot, blowing out the smoke, then taking a daring few steps toward me, only pausing for a split second next to my ear, "I know your name, Christienne."

  With that, he was gone.

  And me?

  I was stuck on the spot.

  With a stomach that felt oddly wobbly.

  It was the syrup.

  I wasn't used to having sweets so late at night.

  I had a stomach ache.

  That was the only rational explanation.

  I decided to cling to it.

  Because if I let myself contemplate those irrational explanations, I might realize something I was in no way prepared to yet.

  I was more than a little intrigued by Finch McAwley.

  No.

  It was far more dangerous than that.

  I was into him.

  Like any woman was with any man.

  And that, well, that was impossible.

  So, I was going to blame the syrup.

  Chapter Four

  Finch

  She got me a new place.

  No, that wasn't quite right.

  One day, she sent me a message with an address as well as instructions to show up there at a certain time with a certain amount of money to hand the landlord.

  From there, I returned home to a giant stack of boxes in front of my unit with a note that said I should be packed up and ready for the moving truck she'd reserved for me the following morning.

  And bright and early at six-thirty a.m., she showed up and stood there watching me pack up said moving truck while she typed away on her phone. Likely writing up another PDF for me.

  Then she went ahead and followed me in her ridiculously practical small SUV that she claimed had a high safety rating as well as good fuel mileage when I had maybe called it an ugly toaster.

  Practical, that was how the woman was.

  I couldn't claim to know what that was like myself, but I found it oddly charming that she extended it to every aspect of her life. Even her damn shoes were practical.

  The new place was a little more remote, a standalone building at the edge of a dead-end road. It wasn't much, but a step up from the row of little rooms I had been living in.

  It was a low brown-shingled ranch with an uneven front porch and a gravel drive.

  "So you'll hear someone coming," Chris told me as she caught me looking at it.

  "Got every detail covered, huh, dollface?" I asked, opening up the back of the truck.

  "That's my job," she agreed, sparing me a short glance before going back to her phone, something she found there making her brows draw together, creating two little vertical lines between them.

  "I'm assuming you know of the moving-in-day tradition, right?" I asked, watching her head snap up, eyes blank.

  "No?"

  "We--or in this case, I--move in all the boxes, make a half-hearted attempt to unpack a few of the essentials, then give up on everything, and order take-out."

  "There's no reason for me to stay here for dinner," she objected.

  "Other than the fact that you know you want to, that is," I corrected, shooting her a smirk as I moved past, letting her stew on that a moment while I made my first trip inside.

  The inside was as dark as the outside, the windows caked in years of grime, making me wonder when the last person had inhabited this place. But the kitchen was a little bigger than the one I'd been renting. There was a proper living room to the left inside the door, as well as a hall that had three open doors. Master, bath, and second bedroom, I figured.

  "It needs a proper scrubbing," she said from behind me, looking past my shoulder. "But it has the extra room for all the printing stuff. Which you need."

  "So I don't burn it up with my smoking," I figured.

  "Oh, right. About that. Hold on," she said, turning, rushing back down the path to her car, grabbing a reusable bag in a bright green color, then making her way back as I put down the box. "I picked this up for you. You can reimburse me when you unpack your money," she told me as I took the bag.

  She was careful to make sure our fingers didn't touch, but she seemed a little excited as I reached inside. "Nicotine patches. Nicotine gum. Self-explanatory," I agreed, finding myself touched that she had gone out of her way to pick them up. Even if her intention was to keep her seed money safe. "And... lollipops?" I said, feeling a smile tug at my lips as I pulled out the bag of Dum-Dums I used to beg my grandmother to buy me as a kid.

  "For the, you know, oral fixation issue," she told me, shrugging.

  I tore open the bag, unwrapped a root beer one, and plopped it into my mouth, watching the way her gaze stayed on me the whole time.

  "You know, angel, you're right. I do have a bit of a... oral fixation," I told her, letting those words drip with the innuendo they deserved. "I wouldn't call it an issue, though."

  "I, ah," she started, letting out an awkward throat-clearing noise, shaking her head. "See? They're working already," she declared, taking the bag back, and moving toward the kitchen, setting the boxes in a row, then fidgeting with the bag of lollipops, and I got the feeling it was bugging her that she didn't have anything to put them in.

  Neat and organized, that was how she wanted things.

  "I've got a bowl for them somewhere. Well, it's a container that came with takeout, but I washed it, and it will do."

  "Great. Okay. Well. I am going to go, ah, pick you up some cleaning supplies. Since I am pretty sure you don't have any of your own," she told me, eager to get away.

  "Darling," I called as she went for the door. "Here," I said, reaching into my back pocket for my wallet. "Already owe you enough," I told her, pulling out some cash, holding it out.

  It was a dick move.

  I knew it even as I waited for her to reach for the cash, as her fingers closed around it, as I let my thumb move out to purposely stroke over hers.

  It was a dick move.

  Because she clearly didn't like being touched. I should have respected that. I should have kept my distance for her comfort.

  But my thumb stroked down her thumb.

  And there was a cheesy-as-fuck, but undeniable jolt of electricity at the contact.

  And I figured she felt it too, because her gaze shot up to mine, those full lips of hers parting slightly, her eyes squinting small with confusion.

  She didn't immediately pull her hand away, though.

  Curious, I moved my thumb over hers once again. A little slower, watching as she took a slow, deep breath, as some of the tension left her shoulders.

  Knowing the moment wouldn't last forever, wanting it to end on something other than awkwardness or discomfort, I teased her.

  "You know, if we were in Victorian times, we'd have to get married now," I told her, watching as confusion turned to amusement, a smile tugging her lips upward, toying with her usually so-serious eyes.

  "You're ridiculous," she told me, taking the money, tucking it into her back pocket.

  "You love it," I shot back, watching as a blush tinted her cheeks as she turned to walk away, glancing over her shoulder at me once before she was gone.

  Oh, yeah, she loved it, alright.

  Maybe she wasn't ready to admit that.

  And maybe she was confused about it.

  But that was alright.

  Because I planned to keep her close for a while.

  She would have some time to suss things out.

  I'd be there when she did.

  And it wouldn't exactly be a hardship to wait, I decided as she came back an hour later with half the cleaning aisle in her trunk, making me haul it all in while she got to work filling a bucket with hot, soapy water.

  "What are my orders now?" I asked as she dug through the last of the bags, pulling out spray bottles, sponges, and rags.

  "Finish unpacking that truck. It needs to be back later tonight. I am going to get started on the cleaning."

  "You're going to clean my house?"

  "Well, I am not entirely sure you are capable of doing it satisfactorily," she told me. There was no malice in her words, just honesty, it seemed. And she wasn't wrong about it either. "Seeing as I will need to come here to pick up the money for the mission, I would prefer not to worry that every surface is covered in some new form of antibiotic-resistant bacteria."

  I'm not gonna lie, watching her clean my new place wasn't exactly a hardship since cleaning involved twisting and turning and bending in interesting ways that happened to show off a woman's body from very enticing angles.

  When she was finished, there were faint traces of lemon cleaners and bleach in all the rooms, and everything--even those grimy windows--was clean.

  "I'm guessing the old place came 'furnished,' from your lack of anything to sit on," she said, looking around, taking in my boxes piled against the wall. "You need to go furniture shopping."

  "That sounds an awful lot like you're offering to go with me, angel."

  "I think you need to get your hearing checked then," she told me, but there was a ghost of a smile on her lips.

  "I mean... I could do it myself," I agreed, reaching for another lollipop, unwrapping it, noticing her eyes were following as I lifted it and slipped it between my lips. So, of course, I went ahead and made a show of it for her. "But then I might end up with an air hockey table instead of a dining one."

  "Who do you have to play air hockey with?"

  "Well, I got you, don't I?"

  "No one has me," she countered. Then, seemed to realize what she had said, eyes getting a bit wide. "I mean, I don't have time for frivolity."

  "Frivolity," I repeated, chuckling.

  "It's the right word."

  "I'm sure it is. I get that work is important to you, doll, but you gotta live a little too."

  "And playing air hockey is living a little?"

  "If the opponent is worthy," I agreed. "But, yeah, if I'm left to my own devices, things could get weird in here. And then whenever you visit, you will have to be a part of that weirdness," I told her, shaking my head.

  Her eyes rolled, but she was trying her best to keep her lips from twitching.

  "Fine. I will help you pick out furniture."

  "And by 'help me' you mean that you will walk in, pick out pieces, then order me to pay the man."

  "That sounds about right," she agreed. "Tomorrow?" she asked, reaching for her phone, swiping through, likely looking at her calendar.

  "Tomorrow works. So, what are we ordering for dinner?"

  "We aren't."

  "Sure we are, sweetheart. I have to pay you back for busting your ass for me here today."

  "That's not necessary."

  "Tell me you're not hungry, and I will let it go." I knew she couldn't. My stomach was grumbling. Hers had to be as well. "Good. Then we have a date. What kind of takeout is your favorite?" I asked before she could object to the word 'date.'

  "I'm not pic--"

  "You are," I cut her off, smiling. "Picky," I finished for her. "Or maybe you prefer the word 'particular.' But you are. And that's okay. So, what do you like the most in this town?"

  "Annie's," she told me.

  "That's the place that is take-out only, right? I haven't tried it yet. What does she have?"

  "Basic comfort food type things. Though, they are always expanding the menu."

  "What do you get?"

  "Annie makes this really cool imitation of Hamburger Helper I used to eat a lot as a kid. But she makes it with fresh ingredients and some kind of soy crumbles. It's amazing."

  "Alright. So we will get two of those. And some fried chicken and mac and cheese. And...what are your opinions on potatoes?"

  "Yes," she said, a shy little smile pulling at her lips.

  "Tots? Wedges? Spirals?"

  "Yes," she answered again, this time letting out a little laugh. "But their wedges are the best I've ever had."

  "Okay. And wedges. Let's order."

  "I can order on the app, but it is probably smart to go and pick it up. I have been really careful to keep your anonymity here. The less people who know you're here, the safer you will be."

  "Looking out for me again, darling? A man could get used to all that sweet."

  "I'm not sweet," she objected, sounding almost offended at the idea.

  "Sure you are, angel. But let's not argue about it. You get to ordering. I will clean up your cleaning supplies. Then we can drop by the convenience store to get some drinks."

  And then we did just that.

  Ever efficient, we left a little early, so that Chris could follow me to the truck rental place. Then she brought me back into town. We loaded up on drinks and snacks. I made a mental note that she liked ginger ale and those glassed coffee drinks in the mocha flavor.