Page 25 of Fake Wife
We’ve discussed who will be here. I’ve sat next to her, the scent of her soft summer perfume so close to me it muddled my mind, while we went through the Lane Holdings website along with other pages so I could show her who the board members are so she has a basic background on them when she meets them tonight. Teagan is being thrown into a den of vipers, and I want to keep her safe as much as I can.
But it’s not the board members or anyone involved in Lane Holdings other than my father who worry me the most. I’m concerned about Trey and Caitlin, another great friend since college. The three of us have been tight since the night we met. Caitlin’s never shared my bed and is one of the few women I actually enjoy spending time with. As of this afternoon, she has yet to tell me if she’s coming. They will be the hardest to convince I’ve fallen head-over-heels in love with a woman in a matter of days. Both will be full of questions and lingering gazes, trying to figure out my secret, but even though Teagan has suggested we can tell Trey, I’m not yet willing to take the risk being outed could cause.
I’m getting Eleanor’s house no matter what it takes. And if we can kiss like we just did in the car, if that chemistry between us had me fighting back the urge to tear her dress off and rip off my tux and take her on the fucking back seat of a limo grows, we’ll be able to make even my closest friends believe anything.
I suppose there are worse things than being almost engaged to a woman whose body you want, a woman who’s currently living with you and is about to marry you, and you can’t fuck her. Although at the moment, I can think of very few things.
Shit. How in the hell do I get myself out of this?
Hiring an escort to slake my lust might be the best option. I’ve never done something so revolting in my life. I’ve also never needed to look for one, and the thought sickens me, but if that’s the only way I can screw a woman and help me keep my hands off Teagan in a way I’m suspecting she wouldn’t entirely despise in the short term, then I might have to consider it.
I’ve jacked off enough this week that carpal tunnel in the near future is a high probability.
Fuck.
“So, are we back to the prickish Corbin I saw earlier tonight or the nice one I spent time with this week?”
Next to me, Teagan stops. We’re already in the lobby of the hotel and I’ve said nothing since we exited the car.
“I’m sorry,” I say, turning to her. Now that I’ve touched her, I can’t stop. My fingers brush against her cheek and her eyes widen, flicker around as if to check to see if I’m putting on a show. I don’t give the first shit who’s mulling around. She’s so fucking soft. Pure. Good. A helluva kisser, and I’m betting an even more passionate lover. Shit. “I’ll try to control my prickish behavior tonight, I promise.” I wink, teasing her, and I’m rewarded with a relieved smile and her shoulders falling.
Hell, I was an asshole earlier and I need to perform like the Lane I am, regaining control of my libido and my brain. This won’t work at all if she begins hating me.
“Then I think escorting me inside and immediately finding me a glass of wine or champagne would help me out a lot right now.”
“Shaken up a bit, are you?”
Her cheeks turn a deep shade of pink and she rolls her eyes. “So you’re a good kisser. I’m sure it’s not the first time you’ve been told.”
“Nope.” I press my hand to her lower back, gently guiding her forward. “But a man needs to be reminded occasionally. Our fragile egos demand it.”
“Nice.” She bumps me playfully with her hip, forcing me to pull her closer. “I’ll make sure to remember that.”
“Do. That’d be great.”
We enter the ballroom and more than a dozen pairs of eyes immediately land on us, yet I barely notice. And neither does Teagan seem to, which is ironic given her earlier fascination and excitement about being photographed. Yet I’m still smiling down at her, she up at me, and something about her smile, the crinkle at her eyes, slams into my chest, burning a hole directly through me, searing me from the inside out.
This woman. I can’t think of a single thing wrong with her. Every moment she turns that smile at me, I want to do everything I possibly can to keep it on her beautiful face.
“Ready to be thrown to the wolves?” I ask, leaning down and whispering in her ear. “Because it’s show time.”
“Let the games begin,” she replies, her hand softly pressing against my forearm. “But give me alcohol. Immediately.”
—
She’s impressive every single moment of the night. If I could have written a list of qualities I want in a fake wife to pull off this charade, Teagan would have checked off every box. I couldn’t have crafted a better, more refined and yet gentle and kind woman to be on my arm. I’ve led her to the closest bar, and while we sip our first glass of wine, I surreptitiously point out everyone I’ve told her about throughout the week. She rises to the challenge, remembering every tiny fact down to who’s having an affair that’s known and not discussed, and even the one mistress in attendance.
Her ability to pull forth such mundane information isn’t necessarily as impressive as the joy on her face is when she finds the mistress and then hides her giggle behind her wineglass as if she shouldn’t be mentioning it.
At least she finds this night amusing, because we haven’t hit the hardest part yet.
As if the mere thought has conjured him out of thin air, my father with my mom on his arm appears through a small crowd of people and begins walking our way. I’m surprised he’s waited as long as he has.
“My parents are headed this way. Need more wine to get through it?”
“And be tipsy, giggly drunk the first time I meet them? No, thank you.”
Better than slurring drunk or high on pain meds like my mom usually is.
