Page 22 of Fake Wife
A knock hits my door and I jump, surprised I’ve wasted so much time.
“Come in,” I call out, already knowing it’s Corbin. A quick peek at the clock on my phone tells me we needed to leave five minutes ago.
At least he hasn’t bellowed for me yet.
I turn as the door opens and my breath immediately lodges in my throat.
“Holy…” I whisper, my eyes dropping and rising, taking in Corbin’s sexy-as-sin body clothed in the sexiest all-black tuxedo I’ve ever seen.
He’s perfect. Tall and wide shouldered and narrow waist. Beneath the tuxedo, I’ve seen those muscles. I’ve seen almost all of them, because Corbin has no problems walking around his house in only a pair of shorts after he showers or sweats after he works out. When he comes home from work, he typically jogs upstairs and shucks off his suit to change. Admittedly, I’ve totally stared as he walks back down the stairs, gray sweatpants on and still pulling a tight white T-shirt over his chest, and my goodness, is his body carved to absolute perfection. I’ve memorized every plane of his body and then gone to bed dreaming about that very same body. I’ve dreamed about running my hands down the muscles of his arms and clamping my hands on to his ass as he drives into me.
But this…fully dressed in a tuxedo is almost better.
He clears his throat. I’ve been unashamedly gawking at him. Worse, he’s let me.
“Hey,” I say. “Sorry I’m late. I’m nervous, I guess.” I reach for my shiny gold clutch, which accents a gold necklace he provided along with the dress, and turn back to him.
When I do, I almost stumble directly into him.
“Corbin?”
His eyes are glued to where my ass just was, and he still hasn’t said anything. Jaw clenched tight, he’s white knuckling the door handle and his lips are pressed tightly together.
I think he likes the dress.
A small part of me wants to shimmy and shake in celebration, but he quickly snaps his eyes to mine and barks, “Time to go.”
I startle, but he’s already turned, heading out the door and down the hallway.
I follow him quickly, and by the time I meet him at the door to the elevator in his entryway, he’s glaring at his phone like it’s offended him.
Okay. Perhaps him liking the dress is all in my head.
I try to find something say, but he makes it clear by keeping his gaze on his phone and moving to the side when I step near him that he wants nothing to do with me right now.
Which is a shame. And disappointing. I could use some comforting. A small little pep talk telling me we’ll be able to handle tonight just fine. That perhaps the friendliness we’ve somehow been able to speak to each other with this week won’t immediately evaporate as soon as we step into the elevator and are whisked away into the night.
There’s something about condo living in the city I can definitely see myself getting used to. This building has everything, including its own boutique grocery store and wine cellar, a restaurant for residents only, room service like we’re living in a hotel, and dry cleaning. There are a host of other amenities including an enormous weight room, sauna, an indoor pool, and an outdoor one. Living here this week with Corbin has been more like an extended vacation I could only dream of, and not real life.
Except it is, and I have to continue reminding myself no pinch is necessary—I’m not dreaming.
The elevator arrives and the doors open, but in a move completely unlike his normal gentlemanly qualities, Corbin steps inside and moves to the side instead of gesturing for me to enter before him.
A frown tugs at my lips but I blow it off. Perhaps he’s as stressed and worried as I am. For all the talking we’ve done this last week, we still don’t know each other well, but I’ve seen him go from friendly to jerk with a snap of the fingers before.
He’s also been quick to apologize.
I fidget with my clutch, wishing I had something to do so I wasn’t staring at us in the mirrored walls. With every floor we reach, descending to the lobby where I know a car will be waiting for us, my pulse quickens.
By the team we reach the lobby, I’m on the verge of having either a heart attack or a panic attack. Quite possibly both. Corbin steps out, and as I follow him, he holds out his elbow, still staring at his phone. I take his rudely offered arm and we walk out to the waiting car together. I’m not amused.
I won’t allow him to be rude to me, ignore me, and then play the perfect part in public, which is the only reason he offered me his arm. There’s always someone in the lobby, waiting either for a guest or for a car they’ve called for, and now that there are people around he has to be polite.
By the time he opens the door and gestures for me to go before him, I’m not only terrified, my anger is boiling over.
If we can’t do this together, at least be kind behind closed doors, the next two years will feel like an eternity.
Once the car pulls away from the curb, he tucks his phone into his jacket pocket.
