Page 14 of Hitched to My Enemy
"What does he want?" Harlow asked, then her gaze dropped to our hands. "Oh shit. The rings."
I looked down at the cheap gold band on my finger—clearly chapel-provided, probably worn by hundreds of drunkcouples before us. The metal had already started to turn my finger slightly green. "Right. Evidence removal time."
"This is so fucked up," Harlow muttered, twisting at her ring. "We're literally hiding evidence of our own—oh, come on." She tugged harder, her face reddening with effort. "It's stuck."
I tried mine first, working it over my knuckle with difficulty. The damn thing had been loose last night, but apparently my fingers had swollen overnight. "Must be the alcohol. Or stress. Or the fact that this ring is probably made of tin foil and desperation."
"Very funny," she said through gritted teeth, still wrestling with hers. "Mine won't budge. Oh God, what if it's permanently attached? What if I have to wear this crappy piece of costume jewelry for the rest of my life?"
"Let me help." I moved closer, and she held out her hand. The ring had definitely gotten tighter—her finger was slightly swollen around it.
"Just pull harder," she said.
"I don't want to hurt you."
"Easton, if Enzo sees this ring, my career is over. Hurt me if you have to."
I grasped her finger gently, working the ring back and forth. "It's really stuck. We might need soap, or—"
"Wait." She stared down at our joined hands, her face suddenly bright red. "I could... I mean, sometimes when rings are stuck, you use..." She trailed off, her gaze dropping to my mouth and then quickly away.
"Use what?" I asked, though something in her expression was making my pulse accelerate.
"Saliva," she said in a rush. "It's more slippery than water. I could..." She gestured vaguely toward my hand, then seemed to realize what she was suggesting. "I could use my mouth to get it off. The ring, I mean. Not—this is not the time."
The air between us went electric. I was still holding her hand, her ring finger between my thumb and forefinger, and suddenly all I could think about was her lips wrapped around my finger, her tongue working the base of the ring...
"That's..." I started, my voice coming out rougher than intended. "That's actually not a terrible idea."
"Right?" But her pupils were dilated, and she pressed her thighs together slightly. "Just practical. Problem-solving."
My cock twitched in response, which was exactly the wrong reaction to have when we were facing a career-ending crisis. "Harlow..."
"Right. Not the time. Definitely not the time." But she was still staring at my mouth, and I was still holding her hand, and the tension between us was thick enough to cut.
"Soap," I said firmly, stepping back before I did something spectacularly stupid. "Kitchen. Dish soap will work."
"Yes. Soap. Good plan." She followed me to the kitchen, both of us trying to ignore the fact that we'd just spent thirty seconds thinking about her mouth on my finger while we were supposed to be preparing for annihilation.
The dish soap worked, though it took several minutes of careful maneuvering to work her ring off without taking skin with it. By the time we were both ring-free, we were standing closer than necessary, both breathing slightly hard from the effort.
"Evidence destroyed," she said, dropping the cheap gold band into my palm.
"Mission accomplished." I dropped both rings into a kitchen drawer, sealing away the physical proof of our alcohol-fueled decision. "Now let's get you some clothes that don't scream 'walk of shame.'"
"Sarah, I need you to do something unusual and urgent," I said when my assistant picked up on the first ring. "I need a complete women's business outfit in my penthouse within twenty minutes. Size 8, conservative but high-quality. Blazer, blouse, skirt or slacks, appropriate shoes, and undergarments. Don't ask questions, just make it happen."
"On it, Mr. Hardwick," Sarah replied without missing a beat. One of the many reasons I paid her exceptionally well was her ability to handle unusual requests without batting an eye.
Harlow stared at me as I hung up. "Did you just order me clothes like I'm some kind of call girl you need to make presentable?"
"I ordered you appropriate attire for a business meeting because showing up in last night's evening gown would be like hanging a sign around your neck that says, 'I spent the night in Easton Hardwick's bed.'" I moved toward the bathroom. "Unless you prefer to conduct commission business in designer silk that screams walk of shame, Pretty Woman?"
She opened her mouth, probably to deliver some scathing retort about my presumption, then closed it again. "Point taken. But I'm paying you back for whatever this costs."
"With your government salary? Sweetheart, this outfit probably costs more than your monthly rent."
"Stop calling me sweetheart," she snapped, but there was less venom in it now. "And stop being right about things. It's insufferable."
