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.