Page 36 of Fake Wife
I take it, the large glass illuminated by the clock, and chug it all down. It’s not nearly enough, but there’s no way I’m moving out of this bed.
I barely remember anything after I puked in the kitchen. Nothing except warm hands at my back, a cold cloth on my forehead. Corbin murmuring that it was okay. Apologies between my retching.
Then nothing.
I lay back down in bed, curling into a ball and putting space between us.
Before he started taking care of me, he was going to kiss me. Wanted to kiss me.
Nothing says I want you, too, like puking all over his Ferragamos.
Walking Disaster should become my new middle name.
Once I’m settled in bed, his hand runs the length of my side. “Go back to sleep. You’ll feel better tomorrow.”
I highly doubt it. I shared way too much last night. Stepped over a line I’m not sure I can come back from.
But it doesn’t matter at all, because when I wake up again, a fresh glass of water and pain pills next to the clock telling me it’s almost ten and the room is bright and warm, there’s no longer a body next to me.
And after a quick search, I learn Corbin isn’t here.
In the last week since I moved into Corbin’s condo, it’s not uncommon that he’s gone for the day before I wake up. But the coffee is usually hot and fresh and there’s always either a note or a text from him letting me know when he’ll be home.
For him to leave me without a single word is odd.
I’m still groggy, my head pounding, when I reach the kitchen, cellphone and charger in hand. The battery died, so I plug it into the outlet at his kitchen bar and grab a coffee mug from one of the glass-front cupboards.
The coffee in the pot is cold and I pop my filled mug into the microwave.
I’ll make more later, when my hands aren’t so shaky. Hopefully a cup of nuked coffee will be better than nothing.
I slide a bagel into the toaster and grab a knife and the cream cheese, and when everything is done, I slather my bagel with more than enough cream cheese and settle down at the counter.
My phone is on, still charging, but a half dozen text message bubbles flicker on the screen.
Caitlin’s and Drake’s names pop up and I groan, shoving a bite of bagel into my mouth.
Seeing his name, even while I refuse to look at his messages, makes me want to throw up again.
It’s pretty safe to say last night was a disaster of epic proportions. Unfortunately, I remember everything. Seeing Drake and Missy. The abrupt turn of Corbin’s emotions. The kiss in the car, the touches at dinner that made me want to lean into his hold, tobethe woman I’m only pretending to be to him.
And the almost-kiss right before I threw up all over him.
Shame fills me and I choke down the nasty coffee to wash away the vile taste of the memories.
How embarrassing.
Yet he’d slept with me. He comforted me when he could have left me and gone to his own bed, especially once I woke up and assured him I was fine.
He took care of me this morning before he disappeared, leaving painkillers and more water knowing I’d need it.
None of it makes sense. He’s hot one minute, frigid the next. He jumps from playful and teasing to tense and vicious quick enough to give me whiplash.
It’s a glaring reminder that though we’ve spent a week together, we know very little about each other, and before we can push this charade too far, before we can pass the point of no return where I’m committed to him—legally—for two years, I need to know everything I can about him.
And I know just the person to give me all the answers. The true ones, the ones that will prove exactly how much dirt Caitlin has on Corbin Lane. I could go straight to the source, but considering I have no idea where he is or when he’ll be back, Caitlin’s my next best option.
After all, she did offer.
