Page 13 of Fake Wife
“It’ll be fine. Trust me.”
“Right.” I laugh. “I don’t even know you and I’m supposed to trust you. Not only that, but I’m supposed to convince everyone in your social circle we’re madly in love. How does this work exactly, anyway? We just run off and elope? Find a judge and make an appointment at the courthouse?” I shove my hands through my hair, my head bouncing against the headrest. “I mean, this is just…I don’t even know what this is, Corbin. Do you really think this is going to work? And how? We don’t even know each other. You know nothing about me, and I know nothing about you except for what I’ve—”
I clamp my mouth shut. Good grief. Was I really just going to tell him that I follow him? That I’m a stalker, a fan of his Instagram, and read about him all the time?
Awesome. He’s just proposed to a psychotic stalker fangirl, a lowly middle-class citizen who has fantasies about him while she sleeps, has imagined his hands on me, running up my thighs, spreading my legs before doing deliciously sexy things to me, over and over again, with not only his hands but other parts of him.
Next to me, his quiet but deep laugh hits my ears.
“Well, I now know you ramble when you’re scared. So it’s a start.”
“This isn’t funny.”
“I know it’s not.” His hand lands on my thigh, making me jump at the sudden contact from him. Through my jeans, his hand warms me and I blow out a harsh breath. This is never going to work. I’m marrying the man who has starred in my sexual fantasies ever since shortly after moving to Portland. Not only can I never act on them, I can’t let him know.
While at the same time, I’m going to have to pretend to be in love with him.
How in the heck did I find myself in this scenario?
“Trust me,” he says, squeezing my thigh before pulling his hand back. “We’ll figure it out. We’ll spend this weekend getting to know each other.”
“Like what? Twenty questions?”
He faces me for a moment, but I can’t see anything behind his sunglasses. No hint of amusement in his eyes, which is probably for the best. His light blue eyes make me feel all squishy in the knees. “Or,” he drawls, “we can talk. Hang out. Get to know each other like normal people. Share some meals, watch some movies, eat some food. On Monday, if you don’t think we can pull this off, you can take off and there will be no hard feelings. Deal?”
I open my mouth to respond with the only option I have: “Deal,” but I stop as he turns off the highway and stops at a security gate. He rolls down the window, punches in a code, and the gate creaks open. He pulls his car through, and in a few moments one of the most gorgeous mansions I’ve ever seen looms in the distance.
“Holy crap,” I whisper, my eyes widening with each passing second. “This is your grandmother’s house?”
His jaw is clenched. His relaxed posture has evaporated and I feel like a schmuck.
From what I know, Corbin and Eleanor were close. They were frequently photographed together at charity events and Sunday lunches, and it hits me that along with what he said about his father at lunch, he was rarely photographed with his dad or his mom, but Eleanor was always nearby.
I reach over and cover his hand with mine and squeeze.
“I’m really sorry about Eleanor,” I whisper. “This must be hard for you.”
His hand tenses and I force myself to focus on the giant rock-and-brick home ahead when he relaxes. “Thank you, Teagan.”
It’s not the first time he’s said my name, but with his rough voice, gritty and thick, it sounds beautiful rolling off his lips.
“Are you okay?”
He flips his hand over, squeezes mine back. “I will be. And honestly, I’m glad I’m not coming here alone. So thank you for not slapping me in the face earlier and for giving this a chance.” I turn to him as he stops the car in front of the house. “I really appreciate it.”
“Of course.”
He stares out the window and I give him the time he needs to settle whatever he’s thinking, waiting until he opens his car door. Climbing out of my side, I meet him as he rounds the hood and takes my hand, guiding me toward the door.
“I’ll give you a tour if you’d like, and then we can bring your stuff in. There are seven bedrooms upstairs, not including mine or Eleanor’s. You can choose whichever room you’d like to stay in.”
Right. Because this is all pretend, and regardless of the thoughts I’ve had of Corbin, the fantasies I’ve had of him, none of it is real or lasting.
He won’t actually take me to bed. He won’t share a room with me.
This is fake, and it’ll only work if we can pretend to be in love, but none of it, nothing in my life for the next two years will be real. I have to remember that.
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