RENT A HEART

EVE's POV

My head pounded. A mother of all hangovers. I tossed and turned, a dull ache throbbing behind my eyes, until I finally succumbed and woke. Flicking on the bedside lamp, I squinted at the wall clock. Almost seven.

"Ugh," I groaned, the word catching in my dry throat. Desperate, I fumbled for the bedside drawer. Surely, surely I had some aspirin left. Empty. Nothing even resembling relief. "Shit."

Clutching my head, I stumbled downstairs towards the kitchen, praying for water and maybe, just maybe, a miracle cure.

The living room was dark, the pre-dawn light failing to penetrate the curtains. Then, I heard it: a distinct clatter coming from the kitchen. My stomach lurched. Fear, cold and sharp, iced through me. Who's there?

Panic seized me. My breath hitched. "What do I do?" I whispered, the sound swallowed by the silence.

Should I retreat, scramble back upstairs, lock myself in, and call the police? Trespasser in my home. The thought offered a fragile sense of control, but the image of the intruder filled her mind too clearly to feel safe.

But what if they heard me? What if they grabbed me before I could make it to my room? The thought sent a shudder ripping through me. Assaulted?, in my own home... the fear was paralyzing

I frantically scanned the room for anything to use as a weapon. Nothing. Except… a bottle of wine, inexplicably propped against the wall. I snatched it up. An expensive vintage, I noted absently, the label gleaming faintly in the dim light. What was it doing lying here instead of in the wine cellar?

No time to dwell. I'd rather die fighting than wait to be killed. That thought solidified my resolve. With a banshee scream ripped from my throat, I charged toward the presumed intruder.

As the figure turned, a flicker of recognition sparked. The closer I got, the clearer the picture became. "Chris?" I muttered, my momentum suddenly faltering. I tried to stop, but it was too late. I was only inches away. And as if that wasn't bad enough, my foot slipped. The wine bottle flew from my grasp, arcing through the air.

"Eve!" I heard him shout, just before strong arms wrapped around me, pulling me close. Instead of the shattering of glass, I heard...nothing.

"Are you okay? You almost hurt yourself," Chris said, a mixture of relief and amusement in his voice. "What were you thinking?" He smiled down at me, but the concern in his eyes was genuine.

"I, uhm…" I stammered, my face burning with embarrassment. "I don't know what I was thinking. To be honest, I didn't remember you slept over and... I mistook you for an intruder." I buried my face in his chest, mortified.

He chuckled softly. "Nothing to be embarrassed about," he said, his hand gently stroking my hair. "But a wine bottle could only do so much if I were really an intruder. If this ever happens again, quietly go back upstairs, lock yourself in your room, and call me or the police, understood?"

I nodded sheepishly, still clinging to him, the adrenaline slowly receding, replaced by a wave of relief and utter mortification.

It took a beat for the reality of our position to fully register. I was still in his arms, one arm resting on his chest, the other curled around his shoulder. Wait... why did it feel like I was touching bare skin?

I quickly pulled away. That's when I saw it. He was shirtless. "Oh my God, Chris, you're... naked?" I blurted out, instinctively stepping back.

Just then, the overhead light flooded the room. Technically, he switched on the light.

"I'm not naked, just shirtless," he said casually, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. "I normally don't sleep with clothes when I'm at home." He then turned and handed me a steaming mug. "Here. Drink. It's green tea. Helps with hangovers."

"Thank you," I mumbled, taking a tentative sip. The warmth was soothing. I perched on a stool at the kitchen table, trying to appear nonchalant.

But my eyes kept straying. I took subtle peeks at his exposed upper body. Honestly, it was unlike anything I'd seen before, and I'd literally seen hundreds of shirtless men during my various fashion campaigns.

He had an incredible physique. Perfectly structured broad shoulders, a sculpted chest, defined abs... and an undeniably captivating V-line that disappeared south. "Oh my God, Eve," I muttered to myself, inwardly scolding myself. I was starting to feel...warm. Too warm. My mind was conjuring up images best left unexplored.

Phewww. I mentally fanned myself.

For a fleeting moment, I was tempted to offer him a deal, right then and there, to model in my upcoming fashion show. He'd be perfect. But then, the contract slammed back into my awareness, and I squashed the impulse immediately. That wasn't part of the deal.

"What are you making?" I asked, desperate to redirect my thoughts away from his...assets.

"Cheese omelette, toast, and a cup of coffee. Hope you like it," he said, sliding a plate piled high with food in front of me.

"Are you kidding? That's my favorite breakfast!" I exclaimed, genuinely surprised. I practically dug in before remembering my manners. "Thank you," I mumbled around a mouthful of omelette.

What were the odds? My fake boyfriend knew my favorite breakfast. No one even remembered that. He had to be some kind of special guy.

"Thank you so much," I said, swallowing hard. "You really didn't have to, and it's so delicious."

"You're welcome," he replied, smiling warmly. "Glad you liked it."

As he reached for a chair, I noticed a slight limp, a wince that flickered across his face. "Why are you limping?" I asked, as soon as I'd finished chewing.

"Oh, that," he said, shrugging it off as he began to eat. "Well, I had to save the wine bottle somehow."

"You used your leg?" I gasped, horrified. "Oh my God... let me see." I hurried to his side, crouching down to examine his leg.

"Chris! It's already starting to swell. Stay right here, let me get the first aid kit," I said, already moving towards the hallway closet.

He'd finished his breakfast while I was gone, so I helped him carefully navigate to the sofa, wanting to elevate his injured leg.

"You really should have just let the bottle fall," I said, gently arranging pillows to support his leg.

"And let you get hurt? No way," he said simply. His words, so sincere and genuine, sent a strange flutter through my chest. My heart did a little skip, a tiny, out-of-rhythm beat.

A strand of hair fell across my face, obscuring my vision. Before I could brush it away, I felt his fingers gently tuck it behind my ear. The simple gesture sent a shiver down my spine.

"Hope this is the last time you get hurt around me," I said, trying to sound nonchalant as I stood up to put away the medkit and tackle the dishes.

A few minutes later, the doorbell rang. "I'll get it, don't worry," he said, walking gingerly toward the door.

He returned carrying a suit bag. "That was my driver. I asked him to bring me some clothes. I hope you don't mind."

"No, of course not," I said, glancing at the clock. "And I should probably go freshen up too. I have an important meeting by eight." I rushed towards the stairs.

I needed space. I needed to be away from him to gather my thoughts, because being around him just muddled my brain, turning it into a confusing, swirling mess.

A few minutes later, I descended the stairs, feeling more put-together after a shower and change. But all composure threatened to crumble at the sight that greeted me. Chris stood by the door, fully dressed in a sleek black suit, the absence of a tie drawing attention to the strong line of his neck.

"Why are you putting on shoes?" I queried, surprised.

"The ointment you applied worked like magic," he said, flexing his ankle. "Subsided the pain and swelling almost completely. See?" He walked a few steps, the limp noticeably absent.

I studied him for a long moment, scrutinizing his movements, trying to detect any sign of deception. "Alright," I conceded, "if you say so." I turned towards the door, needing to put some distance between us.

"You look beautiful, by the way," he added, his voice low. And just like that, the now familiar fluffy feeling blossomed in my chest. I dreaded where these feelings might lead because it wasn't part of the plan. Not at all.

"I'll drop you off," he offered. I quickly shook my head. "No, you don't need to. I, uhm, I need to stop by somewhere before heading to the office."

His gaze was intense, assessing. I couldn't tell if he believed me or not, but he was definitely perceptive enough to sense I wasn't being entirely truthful.

"Okay," he said, his tone flat. He simply turned and walked away, towards the living room. I could sense he wasn't happy, and probably already figured out my lie. He was that perceptive.

A knot of unease tightened in my stomach as I drove to the company. Throughout the entire day, I found myself constantly wondering what he was doing. I wrestled with the urge to call him, to explain, to... something. But ultimately, my ego won. I didn't call. And as a result, I was utterly miserable all day long.