Page 14 of Fake Wife
The house is even more gorgeous on the inside than it is impressive on the outside. The decor is ornate and refined. The house drips of wealth and furnishings that I would expect in a museum, not someone’s home. Yet despite the rich fabrics and priceless artwork, every room is surprisingly warm. The home is inviting. It says kick off your shoes and stay awhile, completely unlike what I was expecting from the vastly wealthy Lane family. They always appear so perfect and well mannered, a bit cold and distant. Seeing a home that is filled with generations of family memories, including a photograph of the original homestead built on the property, surprises me and calms me at the same time.
As we’ve toured the house, Corbin has shared memories of his family as well as his grandmother. I’m not sure if he’s done it to fill the silence, to make his home and life seem more normal, or if he’s jumped straight to the getting-to-know-you part of our weekend. Regardless, I’ve been swept away in his stories and his memories. Only after seeing several rooms do I realize that there’s a single piece of furniture in each that doesn’t fit the decor. Homemade tables and benches. Shelving and cupboards and sofa tables that are modern and straight lined, not carved, but still elegant in their simplicity.
While Corbin shares, sometimes talking about certain pieces or artwork or sculptures, I soon realize he’s skipping over all the modern pieces, and while I’m curious, I don’t ask questions.
We finish the tour and I choose a guest room to make mine, then Corbin helps me bring all my boxes and clothes inside. When I agreed to ride out to Cannon Bluffs with him, he made a phone call to have someone take my car to his condo in Portland. While Portland is safe, I still didn’t want all my belongings to be left in my car overnight. We take them to the room I’ve chosen to sleep in for the weekend. It’s directly next door to Corbin’s, although two private baths and closets between them make them seem farther than they really are. As soon as I stepped into the room I wanted it to be mine, at least temporarily.
It’s one of the few rooms in the house that isn’t heavily decorated with rich woodwork and artwork. Instead, the bed frame and headboard and the rest of the furniture is finished in white shiplap. The bedding and walls are a dusky blue, and room gives off a peaceful beach vibe. But the most beautiful part is the private balcony off the sliding doors that open to the most amazing view of the Pacific. Below the window is the pool, with the pool house off to the side. Corbin assured me it’s always heated so I can swim whenever I like, but it’s the rocky bluffs that drop straight down to the ocean beyond that stole my breath as soon as I saw the view.
With the sun lowering in the sky, the light clouds striping across the sky, the sunset is giving off vivid neon colors of pinks and oranges. While I’ve unpacked everything, Corbin giving me privacy and telling me he’d go make us dinner, it’s difficult to pull my gaze off the ocean and meet him downstairs.
When I finally do, I find Corbin off the kitchen, standing at the back doors almost directly below where my room is. His view is almost the same as mine, but it’s the tightness in his shoulders, one hand bracing on the glass door in front of him, his other hand wrapped around a beer bottle, that tells me he’s not nearly as in love with the view as I was upstairs.
And of course he’s not. For one, he’s grown up with this view and he probably doesn’t notice it anymore, and two, I can only imagine how difficult it is for him to be here, surrounded by memories of his grandmother, while trying to fulfill her dying wish.
Chapter 6
Corbin
It’s entirely possible I’ve not only bitten off way more than I can chew, but I’ve made one of the biggest mistakes imaginable.
What in the hell was I thinking earlier? I’m not the guy who essentially blackmails women into moving in with me, much less marrying me. While the idea sounded like a smashing success earlier, perhaps I was more drunk from the whiskey with Trey than I thought, or perhaps the car accident really had given me a concussion. Maybe Teagan was right.
I should probably have my head examined.
I thought I had it all under control. It makes perfect sense on paper, but as soon as we walked into this house and Eleanor’s memories assailed me at every single corner, the lingering scent of her floral perfume wafting through the rooms, all of it pummeled my chest with the weight of ten tons of pressure pressing down on me.
Not to mention the immense weight of Eleanor’s disappointment.
She wanted something from me and I’ve just spent the entire day thinking entirely of what I want, and not her wishes.
The least I can do for the only person to ever care about me is to take her last remaining wish for me seriously.
The smartest thing I can do right now is apologize to Teagan, set her up in a hotel for a couple of weeks until she can get her life together, and move the hell on.
Start over. Perhaps check out the dating profiles Trey created for me earlier.
Which sounds about as miserable as faking falling in love and making what Eleanor wants for me a big, fuming joke.
Shit.
I take a drink and stare out at the ocean. The sun is setting, and I’m bombarded by a thousand memories of Eleanor and me on the patio, sharing a few gin and tonics, the only alcohol Eleanor ever touched. I’ve traveled the world, studied overseas for months at a time. I’ve stayed at the best hotels, dined at the most fabulous and finest restaurants, met senators and presidents, princes and kings.
I’ve never loved any place as much as this place.
It’s more of a home than the one I grew up in, and I’m not losing it.
Soft footsteps pad toward me and I shift my attention from the setting sun to the lithe and beautiful woman who’s quite possibly the worst mistake I’ve ever made.
In her hand is a bottle of beer, the same as mine. Two others dangle from her other hand.
“So,” Teagan says, lifting the bottles and waving them back and forth. “I think perhaps both of us had a really shitty day today, and I don’t know about you, but I’d pretty much like to forget about almost all of it. How about we get drunk and save the getting-to-know-you crap until tomorrow?”
At least my worst idea has some good ones of her own.
I flick the lock on the sliding glass door and push it open. “Sounds good.”
She follows me outside but I don’t bother waiting for her. I know exactly what I want. It’s summer, and late, but as soon as the sun sets the air will cool quickly. I head toward the outdoor furniture, drag two lounge chairs close to the gas fire pit, and dig out a couple of blankets from a nearby bench.
