11. Saar
Chapter 11
Saar
I hate my fiancé.
Cora
What’s new?
Lily
Isn’t he away?
He’s back (crying emoji)
Celeste
Just don’t kill him.
But if you do, I’ll help you hide the body.
You’re such a good friend.
Lily
Let’s start Corm Quinn fan club (laughing evil emoji).
Cora
To join you have to make him smile.
Or live with him instead of me.
Cora
We can all live in that mansion without him knowing.
Celeste
I’m staying in my loft.
W hy did I get the dates wrong? I go to all the trouble to redesign his downstairs to score a point, and he erases it immediately, catching me unprepared.
Shit. I can’t even blame him. As much fun as I had making his living and dining room as tacky as possible, it wasn’t worth it.
What point was I after, anyway? That I’m an immature, bored, soon-to-be housewife with no style?
It seems like I’m the only one in this competition anyway. It’s annoying how he has everything under control while I float through my days aimlessly.
It’s like the Universe sent me Cormac Quinn to contrast with the current idle phase of my life. Well, thank you very much, dear Universe; perhaps send me a mentor, or a more inspiring example.
And he can cook? Like seriously, the man must be perfect at everything? I could have cooked, but… I groan.
I need to grow up, get out of his way, and only show up for the events. Maybe I can speed up the wedding prep and get this over with sooner. Yes, that’s what I need to do.
I’ll deliver on all the events beyond his expectations. Perform my part and push for the earliest wedding.
I twist my hair into a messy bun on top of my head. Betsy’s instructions stated a casual but classy look. I touch my cheeks with a bit of blush. I wouldn’t have bothered with makeup, but I look like a zombie by now, so I cover the circles below my eyes.
I review the schedule again. I need to find out more about that deal Corm is trying to close. Without that deal, I don’t get my divorce. I must get some information from Cal.
The doorbell snaps me into a frenzy of preparation. Why are they here already? I glance at my watch. Because, of course, they’re punctual.
Dashing to the closet, I put on an off-shoulder blue cashmere sweater and a pair of beige ankle-length slacks. A quick check in the mirror makes me pause. I actually look quite good. Funny how being away from the spotlight made me not care for myself at all.
But I do feel less shitty when I’m not wearing leggings or jeans and any old T-shirt. Maybe I should start my self-discovery with a bit of self-care.
I give myself a soft smile and take a selfie. As I exit my room, I quickly post it with a simple caption: showtime.
My gaze lands on the pic I took downstairs a few days ago. I forgot about that moment of radical honesty. I almost click on the delete button, but a female giggle from downstairs reminds me I have duties to perform.
Putting my phone into my pocket, I force a smile. Not that anyone can see me yet, but I need to fake it now. I might make it believable by the time I descend.
“Sorry I’m late,” I chirp while still mid-staircase, smiling as if my life depended on it. In some ways, it kind of does. Unfortunately for me.
Corm and a woman beside him with dark hair and orange lipstick—why, I ask?—turn their heads.
The woman returns my smile, and Corm… I swear he startles at seeing me.
He rakes his eyes down my body—the asshole is probably making sure I look presentable enough for his precious image—and then gives me a slow, sexy smile.
It’s shocking. And blinding. And—God save me—genuine. That can’t be.
He’s wearing jeans and a V-neck long-sleeve T-shirt. This dressed-down version of him is a new level of sexy. So unfair.
“Here you are, darling.” He walks toward me, offering his hand to aid my descent. “This is Diane, and she will be grilling us today.”
I giggle, a bit too enthusiastically, and Corm tilts his head, frowning.
“I thought you were the one grilling tonight, sweetheart.” The honey in my tone is nauseating.
With his back to Diane, he rolls his eyes. “I’m making a chicken pie; did you forget, darling?”
Putting his hand on the small of my back, he leads me gently toward the reporter. The touch is feather-like and firm at the same time. It burns through the cashmere.
For the three steps between the staircase and Diane, I force myself to ignore the tingling that innocent connection sends through my body. But it’s impossible.
And what is worse, it’s not only the visceral reaction of my treacherous body. As sad as it is, his touch makes me feel safe.
How fucked up am I after years of being objectified, that my nemesis puts his hand on my back and it’s like a veil of protection.
“Nice to meet you.” Diane offers me her hand.
“The pleasure is all mine. Again, pardon my tardiness, and welcome.” I step to the side. I need a moment to recover from that touch.
What is wrong with me? I’ve always been immune to shit like that.
“We’re ready,” a male voice hollers from the direction of the kitchen.
“Great, let’s start.” Diane moves like this is her house, but I guess if her team is already in the kitchen, she knows her way. “It’s a shame you’re remodeling, but I think we can get good shots in your beautiful kitchen.”
I spy the large, black plastic sheets covering the entrance to the dining and living rooms. When did he manage to cover my handiwork?
“I want to make sure Saar feels at home here, so of course, she needs to add her touch to the decor.”
He throws my earlier words back at me while he follows Diane, without giving me a look. I trudge behind them, conflicted. A part of me wants his attention and affection to be real. It must be my sleep deprivation playing tricks.
Beam lights and two large portable reflectors make the kitchen less grand, more cramped. A way too familiar setup that should make me feel comfortable. Instead, sweat covers my skin, my stomach revolting.
Didn’t I want to escape this?
Corm leans in and snakes his arm around my waist. He lowers his mouth to my ear. “You look like you want to vomit,” he bites out a warning.
“It must be your company,” I hiss. “What can I help with, sweetie?” I ask louder and put my hand on his chest, playing my role.
His muscles tense under my palm. I swear it’s like any physical connection has a direct line to my core.
And why am I imagining how that chest looks naked?
“Why don’t you sit and look pretty while I cook?” He kisses my forehead and slaps my ass, sending me to a high stool by the island.
Asshole. “Diane, a confession, I can’t do shit in the kitchen.” I plop on the chair, and she climbs beside me, laughing.
“You and me, you and me.” She fishes a notebook and pen from her bag. “Where is your ring, Saar?”
Oh, fuck, I forgot about it. “Diane, I’ll show you the ring later, but I can’t possibly wear it at home. It’s ridiculously extravagant.” I think I manage to pretend how pleased I am.
“Only the best for my fiancée.” Corm winks.
Diane looks like she is going to melt. Like he was talking about her. “So, what was the first meal Cormac ever cooked for you?”
A humiliation pie. An asshole corn dog. A frustration soup.
“Well, I don’t know if that’s not too private, but it was breakfast.” I smile coyly.
Corm looks at me and smirks. I think that’s his way of showing approval. Not that I need it.
He slices chicken expertly, like he really knows what he is doing. His long fingers wrapped around the knife’s handle draw my attention with their precise, almost mesmerizing moves.
An image of those hands moving around my body flashes through my mind. Jesus. What’s wrong with me? Am I worshiping his hands now?
“Did he bring it to your bed?” Diane asks, shimmying her shoulders.
What?
“Come on, Diane, now behave; some things need to remain private.” Corm points the knife at her playfully.
“Okay, okay.” She giggles again. “I mean, this is off the record, but it’s not a secret that Corm has been partying hard in recent months. Doesn’t it bother you?”
Off the record, my ass. In the periphery of my sight, I more sense than see how Corm’s knife falters.
“I’m not the jealous type, Diane. I know what we have is special, and I trust him. Corm has a demanding job, and he needs to decompress. Unfortunately, I couldn’t be here with him, but I wouldn’t want him to give up living.”
I add a gentle smile to my performance.
My gaze meets his, and I blink. He’s staring at me with… admiration? That can’t be. Is he pleased with my lies?
I may lie through my teeth, but the words stir an unknown longing. I want to have a person in my life I can trust.
“That’s a solid base for a lasting relationship. Not that I would know.” Diane laughs. “Is it true that you gave up your career for him, Saar?”
Definitely not. “I was planning to retire, and maintaining a long-distance relationship isn’t ideal. Especially after Corm’s father passed. He needed me, so I came.”
“So romantic,” Diane gushes.
Corm takes a towel and wipes his hands, moving to me, his gaze glued to mine. What is he thinking?
He leans to kiss my hair. “It’s nice to have someone by my side.”
It’s like a wish. And maybe it’s my own baggage, but I almost feel the loneliness behind his words. His lips linger in my hair for a beat longer than necessary.
I know we’re both spitting lies, performing for the audience, but why do I feel we just had a strange bonding moment?
A shutter click startles me, and I blink a few times as the camera flashes. I swallow a gasp, my stomach shrinking in a nervous vise.
Do I have photo-related PTSD? I want to laugh at the thought, but after another few shutter clicks, I have to excuse myself.
I stumble out of the kitchen and rush to the powder room in the foyer. I grip the edge of the sink and bow my head, trying to catch my breath while my chest seems to have collapsed. Shit.
It’s like I’ve been tortured for years under the lens’s aim, and now, after I experienced a few weeks of freedom, the clicks and the flashes reopened the wounds. Wounds I didn’t even know I had.
Is this burnout? Or am I completely mental? Scared of a camera. What the actual fuck?
On the street after my lunch with Nora, I thought it was a reaction to being accosted with the engagement-ring questions. But maybe it’s deeper than that.
I breathe in and out for a few rounds, and then flush the toilet and run the water to cover my little freak-out.
When I open the door, I collide with a solid body. I brace for his condescending words, reminding me I should entertain the media. Instead, two strong arms wrap around me, and my fiancé holds me without a word.
What is happening? Besides my heart rate spiking and butterflies flapping around my stomach? Has Cormac Quinn just exhibited a rare show of affection and compassion?
How did he even pick up on my distress?
His heart beats against me as his chest rises and falls. The comfort of his embrace does the exact opposite of his intention. It brings tears to my eyes, painful hotness searing my throat. I can’t trust this, though.
I don’t deserve his kindness. It’s fake, anyway. And how am I going to hate him after this? I blink the tears away, hoping he won’t see them. But also hoping he will.
How would a man like him—a powerful business tycoon who has no kind bone in his body—react to me crumbling down under the burden of my current misfortune? And my newly discovered anxiety? I can’t even unwrap that one.
Will he laugh at me? Will he use it against me? Or will he hold me, like he has been for the last minute?
“We should return,” I whisper into the fabric of his shirt.
He doesn’t let go but leans back. Not entirely sure I’ve blinked away my tears, I lift my gaze. His jaw is clenched, and a line splits his forehead. His eyes glow dark.
At that moment, we belong together. Two strangers stranded on an island. No longer lonely. No longer facing the world, each by themselves. It’s comforting, and oddly peaceful.
The silence stretches like neither of us is ready to move past this tender connection.
He’s blocking the door, and I have no way to disentangle from our stance. A part of me doesn’t want to, if I’m honest. I know this is just some outlandish moment of truce between us, but fuck, my tired mind wants to revel in it.
He drops his arms, but doesn’t move. I feel the loss of his touch immediately and mourn it. Mourn it! God help me.
We remain frozen, just looking at each other. It’s almost like the other day in his office, but also different. Like the hatred level is slightly less, replaced by heightened desire, but also some deeper connection. Even though it makes no sense.
But he did look at me like this at the restaurant on our first official date. In fact, every time I drop my walls and give him a glimpse of honesty, he reacts… well, almost humanely.
Is there a chance we could play nice? The notion seems preposterous. But if someone asked me a few days ago, the idea of wanting to be kissed by this man would be equally absurd.
Yet here I am, thinking about it. His gaze is intense, all-consuming, forcing me to hold my breath and not dare to look away.
There is a battle behind his stormy look, but I’m not sure if he’s fighting with me or for me. Or against me.
His tongue darts out, and he licks his bottom lip. I can’t look away, no matter how much I want to. He shakes his head and starts turning, and a part of me deflates. But then he shocks me when he swears and grabs my face.
His palms are warm, his fingers rough against my skin. He leans down, his eyes not leaving mine.
“I asked them to refrain from documenting, and promised we will pose for a few pics during and after the dinner. Is that okay?”
I blink. Once. Twice. Who is this man?
I nod. “Thank you,” I breathe.
“Are you okay?”
Three simple words.
A short question, but it unravels all my insecurities and my stupid need for validation, for affection from those around me.
The girl who was deprived of love all her childhood begs for attention. The woman who lived by herself since she was a teenager wants to rebel against that need, but it’s a lost battle.
I’m not okay, but I’m so grateful for his genuine inquiry, I nod.
He keeps holding my face in his hands. I don’t know if he wants to say something else or kiss the hell out of me.
I don’t know if I want him to talk or to kiss me.
Talk perhaps. Verbal sparring has been our safe place.
No, kiss, definitely a kiss. Because if this pent-up tension and attraction doesn’t get released, we might kill each other.
“Fuck it,” he mumbles.
I gasp as he captures my mouth. Snaking one hand farther to cup my neck, he uses the other one to angle my head for better access.
He doesn’t waste time and thrusts his tongue, and I don’t waste time and give him immediate access.
My body ignites. I feel his kiss all the way to my toes. It’s gentle and rough. Discovering and certain at the same time. Wonderful and scary.
All the conflicting feelings rake through my body, which quivers with every swipe of his tongue.
One thing is for sure, Cormac Quinn kisses like he does everything else. With perfection, he controls the pace, while delivering an experience that has my heart racing, my stomach tickling with butterfly wings, and my core clenching.
This is the best kiss of my life. The thought pops up from nowhere, and I want to discard it, but I lied enough tonight already. Even if this is my last kiss from him, the damage is done.
I won’t forget it. I won’t be able to erase the memory of this delicious pain. Not now, not tomorrow, not after we divorce.
Shit. This is a disaster. We’re to live together for what… at least two months? I need to save myself.
I push him away, both of us panting. He stares at me bewildered, like he can’t believe it happened.
Or he’s equally shocked by the intensity of the connection. Surely not. He must have kissed hundreds of women.
“What was that?” I step away, as if that could save me from reliving this impulsive moment for the rest of my days.
The venom in my voice is such a stark contrast to the warmth of that kiss, I almost recoil at my question.
He flinches and then gives me his unimpressed smirk. I guess we’re both very capable of turning our internal thermostat on and off.
“That was a moment of insanity. Forget it; let’s get this dinner over with.” He turns on his heels and leaves me standing there.