Excerpt of Dictatorship Of The Dress by Jessica Topper

Noah pushed past me. “You take the bed. I’ll take the tub.”

I watched as he spread a large down comforter in the oversized heart-shaped Jacuzzi that sat regally (well, as regally as a gaudy heart-shaped tub could) upon a tiled platform near the windows. He added the decorative pillows from the bed for cushioning before laying a blanket over the top. It looked like a large fluffy nest by the time he was through.

“You look like you’ve done this before.”

“Done what, slept in a bathtub?” Noah gave a grim smile. “My roommate in college snored. I guess this will be good practice for Vegas when I see him.”

While he knelt by the Jacuzzi, preening and poking at his nest, I took in the rest of our hotel accommodations. Besides the gargantuan king-sized platform bed, there really was no other sleeping alternative. Two wingback chairs flanked the decorative fireplace, but they would be more uncomfortable to sleep on than the seats at the airport.

Sleep.

As in, actual resting. Was I really expected to get any sleep with this—this stranger—this “I know I’m handsome so I’m allowed to be incredibly obnoxious” stranger—three feet away from me? I didn’t even have my requisite can of Mace in my pocketbook. Stupid TSA, with their prohibited items lists and three-ounce rules.

There was one thing I had in my bag that could possibly prevent any sticky situations. I sprinted over to the bed and pulled it out of my bag in an “I’ve got the conch!” Lord of the Flies move.

Duck Tape. I gave the end of the roll a fierce tug, and it emitted a loud pfffffffft as I stretched a length of it.

Noah sat up rod-straight. “What was that?”

“Duck Tape.” I thrust my hands up in the air to show him.

“You mean duct tape. For sealing ducts. Not duck. Ducks quack. They don’t go pfffffft.”

What a smart-ass. I held up the label, which clearly said my brand of duct tape was Duck Tape. It was also fuchsia and black zebra print, and fabulous.

“All right. So the names are interchangeable,” he allowed. “Still. What are you planning to do with it?”

Gee, I don’t know. Gag you?

I bent and, beginning at the wall next to the bedside table, stretched it all the way to the opposite wall, pushing it down to the Berber carpet as I went. I tried not to think that he might be checking out my butt as I waddled along.

“Come nighttime,” I dictated, “we don’t cross this line to each other’s side.” I had seen it on an old episode of The Brady Bunch.

“You may want to rethink your boundaries. My side has the bathroom.”

Huh. It hadn’t ended so well for the Brady boys, either, come to think of it.

Noah tossed his suit jacket onto one of the wingbacks, kicked off his shoes, and hopped in to test the nest. He looked so cozy and insulated.

“Well, that’s hardly fair. I say we flip for it.”

He cracked an eye. “I loaned you my sneakers, gave you the bed, and you’re still giving me a hard time?” I crossed my arms. Noah sighed and dug into his trouser pockets for a coin. “Heads or tails?”

“Heads,” I called as he flipped the coin from his reclining position. It bounced off my Bozo shoe, rolled over near the bed, and landed in his favor. “Phooey.” I picked up the coin with a frown.

“What’s your problem, Laney?”

“I . . . I really wanted to try the nest,” I admitted.

Noah slowly pushed himself up and out. “It’s all yours,” he said slowly. “Go nuts.”

I was sure he thought I was nuts, but I didn’t care. Smiling, I untied his Chuck Taylors, pulled them off, and plopped myself in. “Nice.” I looked up at him. “Well built.”

“Eight hours of nice?”

“Maybe.” I curled on my side. “Maybe not.”

“I’ll take it, Miss Bichonné,” he mocked. “You can have the big white fluffy bed. I’ll bet it matches your dress.”

I stuck my tongue out at him as he began to set up his base station at the desk, firing up his laptop and unwinding his power cord. I knew he couldn’t see me but it felt good to do it. For spite, I stayed in the nest. Had I been alone, I could have stripped and soaked all the snow and cold away with a bubbly Jacuzzi and a minibar drink. And maybe called down to room service and ordered up a tattooed Lance from the bar.

Having a fake fiancé was really cramping my style.