Page 16 of Fake Wife
And soon I’m going to have to reveal all of it to Teagan, a girl I’m guessing has grown up in an actual idyllic life, not something fake and dark like mine, with so many buried secrets it’s amazing any of us are still breathing under the weight of them.
All while I keep whatever attraction to me she has at bay, because whatever she thinks she’s knows, none of it is true. Soon I’m going to be bursting her pretty little bubble and giving her a hard dose of reality.
Chapter 7
Teagan
I awake on what feels like a fluffy white cloud, floating in the sky, with the gray blue walls all I see as I open my eyes. This bed is by far the most comfortable thing I’ve ever slept on. When I climbed in last night, I was fearful I wouldn’t be able to sleep.
Thanks to the help of scotch and a mattress fit for a queen, I wake rested, despite the headache brought on by overindulgence.
Outside, waves pound the rocks beneath the bluffs, echoing the dull thumping in my head, and I take a moment to figure out what to do. Today is literally the first day of the rest of my life, or at least the next two years. If the photos I saw on Instagram and Portland Celebs last night are anything to go by, every day I’m with Corbin is going to be drastically different from my life before.
Plus, I have a handful of calls to make, first to William and Mary, because like me, Mary is a major gossip hound, and if she hasn’t seen the photos yet, she will. At some point, I’ll have to speak with Drake. Not that I have much to say, but I know him enough to know he might have given me my space yesterday to move all my stuff out after I caught him balls deep in some skank, but he’ll want more closure. I’m in no mood to see him anytime soon, but if Corbin and I want to start selling our relationship, I need to put the past behind me, despite how difficult it will be to see Drake.
Which means I need to get out of this bed I want to linger in forever, pull myself up, and have a serious conversation with Corbin about what happens next.
A quickie wedding? Elopement? Will we take the six months to plan something Lane-family worthy?
The very thoughts make my stomach roll and I heave myself off the high bed frame and stumble to the bathroom.
I’ve agreed to marry Corbin Lane. A pure Cinderella story if I’ve ever heard one. The orphan becomes a wealthy woman. Married. It’s all a lie, but that doesn’t mean a part of me isn’t thrilled.
The other part is mostly terrified. I’m nothing like the people he surrounds himself with every day, and I have some major doubts I’ll be able to pull off being the kind of girl worthy of someone like Corbin.
He’s been nothing but a complete and perfect gentleman, and yeah, my crush on him is now growing. He’s not only sexy as hell, he’snice.
Unexpected, to say the least.
But I have to keep my heart out of this and my eyes on the prize. So what if my seven-year relationship careened to a screeching halt. So what that all the times I moved with Drake to follow him on his goal of becoming a cardiac surgeon meant I haven’t been able to put down my roots, finish college like I wanted, or open up my equine therapy farm for special-needs kids like I’ve always wanted. I can have all of it now.
Drake’s betrayal isn’t nearly as earth-shattering as I thought it would be. I’m still not entirely certain if it’s the shock of the last twenty-four hours, or if it’s just reality. We haven’t had sex in months, and at some point, all of our lazy days spent in bed and me helping him study became us living completely separate lives. I thought we were still in it together, but is it any wonder he went looking for someone else when for the last year, whenever he’s come home, I’ve been sleeping, and whenever I leave for work, he’s the one sleeping? We haven’t been on the same schedule, barely seen each other enough to say hello or good morning, much less have any kind of romantic, intimate life.
And while it bothered me, it didn’t mean I went looking for someone else, which really just makes Drake a gigantic jerk.
While I take a quick shower and get dressed, throwing on a pair of capri yoga pants and a cropped sweatshirt, I come to the stunning conclusion that I’m not upset about Drake cheating as much as I’m upset he didn’t take the time to tell me we were over first.
And we have been. We’ve been in Portland for four years, but for almost the last year, we’ve essentially been strangers sharing a bed and no longer a couple. The last time we were intimate was well over six months ago. Is it possible I’ve been holding on to something because I’ve loved the promises we made years ago, not necessarily because I’ve been in love?
I just have to resign myself to the fact that I’m about ready to start another relationship for the next two years under the same conditions.
I definitely have to stop thinking about how good Corbin smells, how good his hands feel when he touches me, or how giggly I feel whenever he looks at me.
By the time I head downstairs, pulled in the direction of the scent of coffee brewing in the kitchen, I have committed myself to this. A business relationship with a large financial payoff. The freedom to find a job where I can begin working toward my goal, and I get to do it all while having a hot piece of man candy on my arm.
I reach the kitchen and all of my confidence abruptly flees.
In front of me, with his back facing me—a very strong and well-muscled and completely bare back—is Corbin. Dressed only in a pair of bright blue athletic shorts, in all his glory, free for the looking. And oh do I look. He’s at the stove, bacon grease popping as he flips a few strips and then cracks a few eggs into a dish. I am frozen to my spot just outside the kitchen doorway, my tongue most likely hanging out of my mouth like a needy puppy.
Good grief, the man isbeautiful. Sinewy muscles work efficiently, and I can’t stop myself from staring, soaking in every inch of his body exposed to me.
Goodbye business arrangement. Goodbye confidence in being able not to act like a moron around him. He doesn’t even know I’m here and I’m practically panting over him. He hasn’t touched me, or hell, looked at me, and I’m melting into a mushy pile of goo.
There’s no way I’m going to be able to pretend to be in love with him and not actually fall for the guy—or at the very least, his body.
He turns and his eyes widen in surprise at seeing me standing there. I quickly move to the coffeepot and fill an empty mug I assume he’s left on the counter for me.
“Good morning,” he says, and I stare at my mug instead of him. My cheeks are hot; my body is all tingly. It has to be from a huge lack of sex over the last year that has me so tangled and twisted over being in the same room as him.
