Page 33 of Fake Wife
A line pops between her eyes and she tilts her head to the side. “What?”
“Did it hurt?” I point my finger in the direction of the hotel. “Did it hurt to see him with her? Does it hurt you to know he was all over you and I’m guessing is trying to find a way to get you back? Did that hurt, Teagan?”
“I was with him for almost seven years. Of course seeing all of that hurt.”
Of course.
I drop her hand and pull out my phone, texting the driver to bring the car. She walks up next to me and touches my forearm.
I pull away. Fuck this. Keep it business, keep her at a distance.
“Did you think I was going to go back to him? Because he trapped me outside a bathroom and apologized?”
“I don’t know anything about you, Teagan.” I slide my phone into my coat pocket and cross my arms over my chest, staring out at the dark night. The hotel across the street. At nothing. “But you need to be more careful. One photo of you seen with another man after you’ve been photographed with me will throw the gossip mill into overdrive.”
The car pulls up and Gabe, my driver, steps out, moving to the back passenger door. As soon as it’s opened, Teagan steps forward, glaring at me as she passes.
“Thanks for being an even bigger asshole than Drake. Helps me remember that when you’re nice, it’s all one big act you’re putting on. Reminds me of our agreement and my place in your life.”
She slides into the car, disappearing, and I stand on the sidewalk too damn long, until Gabe calls my name.
I shove my hands through my hair and groan toward the heavens.
Fuck.
—
Car ride from hell. An elevator ride to the twenty-sixth floor even worse.
I’ve already apologized for being a jerk to her more than once tonight. Right now there’s no way she’s going to believe another one.
She’s made her point, and she’s not wrong in any of it. I’ve been manic at best when it comes to Teagan.
Completely psychotic at worst.
I find her in my kitchen, slamming doors open and closed on a clear hunt for something.
Hopefully not a large, sharp knife.
“Where’s your alcohol? Tequila preferably. Anything but that scotch stuff you drink.”
I walk around where she’s crouched in the corner, digging through my pots and pans cupboard, keeping my laughter to myself. Why the hell would I hide alcohol behind stockpots?
“It’s all in here.” I have the butler pantry cupboards open as she stands, wiping her hands down her dress. Spectacular. Jesus. My jaw tightens at the sight of her walking closer to me, eyes narrowed into tiny slits. Her hips, her breasts, all in a tall and luscious package. I want to unwrap her like a treasured present, splay her out on my bed, and discover every hidden inch of her. Although I’d prefer to do it all when I’m not worried about her slicing off my dick. The glare she shoots me tells me she’s at least considered it.
She skirts around me, reaching for a glass and filling it with ice before returning. I pull down two different bottles of tequila.
“Did you buy all this?” she asks, looking at the fully stocked bar.
“Yeah. Of course.”
“Of course,” she mutters, her voice slightly petulant. “Which one’s the most expensive?”
“The Gran Patrón was a few hundred, the 1800 a couple grand.”
I expect her to reach for the Patrón but she doesn’t. Grabbing the 1800, she dumps it into her glass, filling it to the brim.
I laugh softly. She wants to get wasted on my good shit to get back at me for being a jerk? Have at it. Instead of joining her, even though getting wasted after tonight sounds like a fantastic idea, I move to the fridge and grab a bottle of water. Someone should be sober when she gets drunk.
