Page 73 of Fake Wife
He rolls his eyes and pulls back. “Stay out of trouble.”
“Have a good day.”
“I’ll be home as soon as I can.” He kisses me again, sweet warm lips at my forehead, my nose, and down to my lips, where I take him slowly, eagerly, until he pulls back, cheeks flushed.
I do that to him. The sexiest man in Portland three years running flushes at my kisses and caresses.
Nothing is more beautiful than knowing it.
When he’s gone, I don’t call Caitlin and I don’t do any of the things I said I was going to do. Instead, I curl into his sheets, surrounded by his scent, and close my eyes and go back to sleep.
I dream of flower petals and waves crashing. I dream of families and friends. I dream of laughter and kisses, and when I wake again, I hope it’s prophetic.
I want everything in my dreams to finally come true. It’s so close, and I have a man who loves me and wants to marry me.
I only have to trust that this man’s love for me is real and lasting…unlike the last one, who threw it away.
God. I should not be alone.
Climbing out of the bed, I wash off my apathy with water so hot it needles my skin. After I’ve brushed my teeth and eaten a bagel and cream cheese and a small cup of oatmeal, I call Caitlin.
Being alone is not a good idea for me today. If only I could place my finger on why.
—
I’m in the kitchen, scribbling down a grocery list for tonight. It’s the first dinner I’ve cooked for Corbin and I want it to be special. He loves me.
I love him.
Tonight, over scallop and bacon risotto, I plan on actually getting the words out. Who knows, perhaps once we lay our cards on the table, or at least I do, our wedding service will be real.
Love at first sight, whirlwind wedding…my life has turned upside down and flip-flopped all over the place.
And I’m sounding like a sap.
I need Caitlin to get here quickly. We plan on running to the grocery store, and then she’s going to keep me company while I cook. I’m planning on her talking sense into me over a bottle of chardonnay.
I scribble down another bottle of wine on my list, singing along and hips swiveling to the beat of Sam Hunt’s “Body Like a Back Road,” when a knock hits the door.
I turn down the speaker on the Bluetooth stereo and dance to the door, assuming it’s Caitlin. Corbin has a key and the security desk would have called about anyone else.
“What the hell?” I ask, still taking the time to peek through the peephole and see Franklin Lane standing outside the door.
“Mr. Lane,” I say, opening the door. In one hand is my now crumpled grocery list. I step back and let him in. “This is a surprise.”
“Miss Monroe.”
My name on his lips is a sneer, one he can’t hide, although I doubt he’s trying very hard. And it’s really a shame the man is such scum, because he’s also really handsome. Lines are etched across his forehead and rim the outer edges of his eyes, but he has Corbin’s familiar jawline and cheekbones. A thick mess of slightly graying light brown hair, just a smattering that in a sick way makes me want to know what Corbin will look like when he’s in his fifties.
Sexy as hell is what he’ll be. Especially if he ages like the man in front of me.
“Corbin isn’t home.”
“I know.” He lifts out a manila envelope. “I came to see you.”
I take the envelope from him, barely touching it as if it’ll grow fangs and a poisonous tongue. I don’t trust this man, and my body is alert, shoulders pulled tight. Senses heighten, and I know what this is: fight or flight, as adrenaline surges in the face of a predator.
The gleam in his eyes that are thankfully nothing like Corbin’s tells me I’m Franklin’s next intended victim. The envelope in my hand is his weapon.
