I look up from my phone and see a gorgeous brunette sauntering toward me. It takes me a moment to realize it’s Quinn. I groan as my cock jumps.

Down, big guy…

But hell, I can’t blame him. Her scarlet cocktail dress stands out against the ubiquitous black and grays of every other diner in the room, hugging her soft curves and full chest in the most intoxicating way. Her mahogany hair is gathered into a loose bun at the nape of her neck, a pair of pearl drop earrings donning each earlobe. She wears a gold locket around her slender neck, and my gaze can’t help but follow its thin chain to where it rests between her breasts.

“Sorry I’m late,” Quinn gushes as she settles into her seat. She places her black clutch next to her butter plate and sweeps a tendril of hair off her cheek. “The subway was delayed.”

“You took the subway here?” My gaze dips down to that locket. “In that?”

“Is this not appropriate? I looked up the dress code before, I swear.”

“No, it’s…fine.” It’s more than fine. She looks fucking incredible. “You shouldn’t have taken public transportation, though.”

“Why?”

“It’s dirty and unsafe, and in that dress… I’m surprised nothing happened.”

Quinn tilts her head. “Aw, is my fake boyfriend being protective?”

“No,” I snap, “but I would have picked you up.”

“I know, but I don’t need your help.”

My teeth clench. There she goes again, getting under my skin. I motion to the menu. “Have you been to La Grenouille before?”

Quinn shakes her head. “I was shocked when you suggested this place. I’ve been wanting to try it for ages, but it’s light years beyond my budget.”

“I thought you’d like it,” I say, pleased.

“Why?”

“It’s French.”

“Is it that obvious that I love French stuff?” she asks, a flattering blush creeping into her cheeks.

“French impressionists, Norma’s, the croissant…” I shrug. “I took a guess.”

“Well, thank you.” Quinn picks up the menu, glances at it, and sets it down. “Maybe we should talk about why we’re here.”

“At least wait until our amuse-bouche arrives,” I say.

“I’d rather get right into it. To be honest, it’s all I can think about.”

“Fine.” I motion for the waiter. “Then we’re going to need something stronger than water.”

A waiter materializes next to our table. “Bonsoir, monsieur.”

“Une bouteille de merlot, s’il vous plaît,” I say in rapid French, sending him off in search of some merlot.

Quinn gapes at me from across the table. “You speak French?”

“My mother’s French. It’s hard to avoid it.”

“Huh,” she says, giving me an odd look.

“What?”

“It’s just… I found something I actually like about you.”

Christ. “Now that reinforcements are on the way,” I say, brushing right by that infuriating comment, “let’s talk about the next five months.”

Quinn leans forward, awarding me a nice view of her full chest. “Why five months?”

“November seventh is the big day.”

She nods. “Okay, then when do we need to go public?”

“As soon as possible. My father’s going to announce his intention to run next week, thus the ridiculous two-week deadline for me to find someone.”

“They would have made you date someone if you hadn’t found a girl in two weeks?”

“Apparently,” I grumble.

“Brutal,” Quinn says, growing still. “Do they do that a lot?”

“What?”

“Try to run your life?”

I look into her eyes to find she genuinely cares. “It’s not important,” I say brusquely, pissing her off. “Anyway, my parents will want to meet you before we go public.”

“Holy cow, that’s fast. What if they don’t like me?”

“Then they’ll choose for me.” I shrug off her shocked look. “That was our deal.”

“Great, no pressure,” Quinn mutters.

“You’ll be fine.”

“Seriously?”

“Sure. You’re exactly what they’re looking for. Hardworking, cleans up well, simple—”

“Wow,” she snaps. “Only you could turn a compliment into an insult.”

“I didn’t mean to insult you.” She’s touchy.

Quinn gives me a cold smile. “Let’s get one thing straight, Archer. I won’t stand for being insulted for being a normal person. So cut out the ‘simple’ and ‘cleans up well ’ shit.”

I smirk. “You’re a feisty one.”

“Comments like that fall under that ‘shit’ category.”

Our bottle of merlot arrives, and Quinn continues to glare daggers at me while the waiter uncorks it, gives me a sample, then pours.

“Êtes vous prêt à commander, Monsieur?” he asks me.

I turn to Quinn. “I think we’re ready, right sugar pie?”

“You know best, pumpkin,” she snaps back. I hide my laugh behind a cough.

I put the order in and sit back with a satisfied sigh. “You’re going to have to do better than that, baby cakes, or we’re never going to sell this to my parents.”

“Speaking of selling this,” Quinn says, ignoring my comment, “where did we meet? How long have we dated? I think people will want to know.”

“We met at The Stratton Wing Reveal two weeks ago,” I answer.

“So the truth?”

I shrug. “Why not?”

Quinn thinks about it for a moment. “It would be easier to sell.” She glances at me. “We’ll leave out the part where you insulted me to the point that being near you makes my skin crawl.”

“Oh, sweet cheeks, that temper of yours always gets you into trouble.”

Her eyes widen. “Sweet cheeks?”

“I’m trying a few out, see what sticks.”

“That one can go right in the trash.” Quinn grabs her wine glass and takes a gulp. “I want to talk about your end of this.”

“I already told you that I’ll fund the proposal after the campaign.”

“Too bad I don’t trust you,” Quinn replies.

I place my hand over my heart. “That hurts, baby doll.” Quinn glowers at me.

Another miss, I see.

“You’ll get over it,” she says. “I want you to sign a promissory note saying Stratton Trust will fund the proposal…”

“Alright.”

“…in payments made on the first of each month…”

“Sure, whatever.”

“…starting next month.”

Checkmate.

I rake my hand through my hair. “I see I’ve underestimated you.”

“I have to make sure that Stratton Trust doesn’t suddenly decide to reallocate their funds. Not after five months of putting up with you, sweetie.”

I want to point out that five months with her isn’t going to be a cakewalk, either. “Deal,” I agree, grinding my teeth.

“Fabulous.” Quinn sits back and grabs her wine. “Now, what are my girlfriend duties?”

“You’ll be on my arm for campaign events. I suggest you clear your social calendar and let work know you may have sporadic hours.”

“Let work know?” Quinn bites her lip.

“I’ll have my assistant send your assistant the list of—”

“Just send it to me.”

“Fine.” I swirl my wine and take a sip. “You know, it might be easier for you to live with me.”

She shakes her head. “No way.”

“I hate the idea, too. The thought of sharing a bathroom with you makes me gag—”

“Such a gentleman,” she murmurs.

“—but I’m never home, and we’ll be out most nights, anyway.”

She shakes her head again.

“So that’s a no.”

“Yup. A hard no. I’m not moving in with someone I don’t love.”

Love? The concept makes me cringe. Oh God, is my fake girlfriend a hidden romantic? Why am I not surprised. “We may not be in love, Quinn, but we’re imitating it. We’re going to have to touch. People will expect us to hold hands, make out—”

“I’m not making out with you. You get a peck on the lips for the cameras and crowd, and that’s it. Oh, and before you ask, we’re not having…you know.”

I stare at her. “Am I supposed to know what that means?”

“Sex,” she whispers across the table.

I throw back my head back and laugh. “You would be so lucky!”

“I doubt it.”

I point a finger at her.“I’ll have you know that I’m a great lay; ask any woman who’s been lucky enough to find themselves in my bed—or cloakroom. The woman comes first…in more ways than one.”

“Adding ‘inflated ego’ to your long list of venereal diseases.”

“Nope. I’m clean as a whistle, darling, and ready to give you the ride of your life.”

She rolls her eyes. “Gross. We’re not having this conversation.”

I shrug. “Your loss, sugar tits.”

“Fine with me—and don’t call me sugar tits!”

“Whatever.” I take a sip of wine. “There are plenty of other women to choose from.”

“Just a sec,” Quinn says, holding up a hand. “You’re not sleeping with anyone else while we’re doing this.”

I almost lose my shit. “You’re telling me that I’m stuck with you and celibacy?” I demand.

“I’m not thrilled by the prospect of being stuck with you, either, so suck it up.”

“Screw that.”

Quinn rubs her temples. “No, you’re right, Archer. Getting caught screwing around behind your girlfriend’s back—your first serious relationship in years—is absolutely going to help bolster your image.”

When she puts it that way…

“Fine,” I mutter, “but you’re killing me here.”

The first course arrives, severing our depressing conversation. Quinn takes in the parmesan panna cotta amuse-bouche and beef napoleon with wide eyes. It’s kinda cute seeing her light up around all this intricate French food. I can’t think of anything that gets me that excited. Well, except for sex, but that goes without saying.

I’m surprised by Quinn’s utter horror at the thought of sleeping with me. I’ve never had a woman refuse a romp between the sheets—not with my reputation. But what did I care? Quinn’s opinion means nothing to me. She’s just my fake girlfriend, there to serve one purpose. So what if our arrangement doesn’t involve extracurricular activities? I can keep my dick in my pants for five months.

Quinn takes a spoonful of the panna cotta. I watch as she closes her eyes, tilts her head back, and sighs into the flavors gliding over her waiting tongue. Her eyelids flutter open, those emerald-green orbs drunk with pleasure.

“Oh my God, Archer…” she moans. “This is so good.”

Never mind. I’m totally screwed.