Chapter 4
Sabrina
I look at my extensive checklist in preparation for the arrival of our Christmas guests. Dex is already at the arena for pregame skating, so I’m the one who will welcome his parents and sister to the “urban farmhouse.”
The team completed a couple of away games, which means Dex and I have barely seen each other since that mind-blowing kiss at the holiday party.
When he came home late last night, I stayed in my room, pretending to be asleep. Why? Because remembering my husband’s skilled and delicious mouth is slowly annihilating my brain cells.
One more kiss and I’ll dissolve into a puddle of frayed nerves. Who will prepare the house and welcome the guests then?
Thus, back to the checklist.
Number one: prepare varied refreshments and hot appetizers for when the Whitby family arrives. Check.
Next, prepare the guest bedrooms and bathrooms since this is the first Christmas we’ve ever hosted, and I really want to impress my mother-in-law. Double check.
Also, arrange Christmas gifts under the tree and stock the fridge with everyone’s holiday favorites like his sister’s favorite prosecco. The benefit of growing up with Dexter is I know his dad is a dedicated meat-atarian and his mother adores vanilla scented candles.
So many checks!
Last on my checklist is: sleep in my husband’s bedroom so we can sell the legitimacy of this marriage of convenience.
Cue the buzzer, because the answer is a resounding negative check.
That changes in a few hours. We agreed that the fewer people who know of our ruse, the better. Which is why I’ll be sleeping in my husband’s bed for the next couple of nights. Being a gentleman, Dex offered to sleep on the floor for the duration of his family’s visit.
But what if he’s injured while sleeping on such a hard surface? What if he can’t sleep at all? What if someone enters unannounced?
Sleeping separately presents more risks than benefits.
It’s an unnecessary precaution. After all, we have two things that will keep the temporary sleep arrangement from getting awkward: a clear understanding of boundaries and a king-sized bed with enough pillows to form a wall between us.
The doorbell rings, launching me out of my reverie. The guests have arrived.
Although Charles and Maxine Whitby are now happily retired in Florida, they raised Dexter and his sister in the same Buffalo suburb I grew up in.
I open the door to greet people I’ve known all my life.
Instead of easy familiarity, however, everything feels new and loaded and intense.
I’m no longer the child who played video games in their basement or street hockey outside their house.
I’m no longer the kid they shuttled around during tournaments because Dex and I were a package deal when it came to travel carpooling.
I’m no longer their son’s little Filipina bestie who played goal because what she didn’t have in size, she made up for in reflexes.
I’m no longer a girl at all.
I am the woman who married Dexter Whitby. Fake married, I mean. Knowing I’ll be lying to his family twists the ever-present clench in my stomach.
The cringe-inducing “why didn’t you tell us you were going to elope” confrontation already happened in Buffalo. Therefore, Maxine is cued up for a whole other conversation.
“When are you and my son giving us grandkids? This house is perfect for a family!” She offers a tinkling laugh like she’s kidding. At least, I think she’s kidding.
“Mom was hoping you eloped because you were already knocked up,” Julia whispers in my ear when we hug.
I choke on air.
Julia, Dexter’s younger sister, barely tolerates hockey.
Granted, growing up with a superstar brother meant you were subjected to boring hours in countless arenas, watching or waiting for him.
Now that she’s moved to New York and works in the fashion industry, the occasional hockey game no longer brings her to tears.
“Would you like drinks and appetizers before a tour?” I ask to shift the topic away from grandkids. “Or maybe you’d prefer to freshen up in the guest bedrooms?”
Thank god for my checklist.
“This place is huge!” Julia gushes while strolling into the living room.
“I told you it’s perfect for a big family,” her mother says while following Julia into the kitchen.
“These stuffed mushrooms look fabulous!” Julia calls out, having found the appetizers I laid out. From the foyer, I hear mother and daughter decide on which wine to open first.
Charles, father and least chatty of the Whitby clan, enters with two rolling suitcases. A gentle giant, he gives me an amiable smile when I peck him on the cheek.
We tour the house while I offer an overview of necessities like Wi-Fi passwords and where Dex stores the hard liquor. Maxine has already chosen the room that will serve as a nursery. It’s the one I’m currently occupying as the fake wife.
Irony is a guilt-inducing son of a joker, am I right?
Before we leave for the arena, I enter Dex’s bedroom to freshen up and gather myself. Three loud knocks make me jump. I open the door to find Julia holding a large box with a sparkly red ribbon on top.
When she gestures for me to take it, I voice my curiosity. “We’re spending Christmas together. Why don’t we open all our presents then?”
Looking mischievous, Julia lets herself in and plops on the bed.
“Trust me, you don’t want to open this in front of our parents.”
“Why?” I ask before remembering a detail about Julia’s job. She’s the fashion merchandiser for Rose Lingerie.
“Just because you didn’t have a bridal shower, it doesn’t mean you don’t need the goodies that come with it.”
Her tone is playful, but there’s a hint of hurt in it, too. Julia would have wanted to participate in a traditional wedding ceremony, I think. If she only knew how untraditional our circumstances are . . .
The impulse to confess makes me antsy, so I revert my attention to the gift.
“Do you want me to open it now or, like, later?”
The thought of pulling out lingerie in front of Dex ticks up my heartbeat.
“Normally, yes, you can open them privately. But one of them will require a bit of a tutorial.”
“Um, why? Also, one of them?”
“Obviously, this is the start of your collection. You need to keep things spicy during a marriage.” She nods her head knowingly.
Is there a widely circulated marriage memo I neglected to read?
I open the box to find delicate pieces of lace and satin separated by rose-colored tissue paper.
“The first two sets are your usual push-up bustier with matching Italian thong,” she says in a language barely coherent to me. My idea of undergarments is thermals under hockey uniforms.
“There’s a nationality for thongs?” I croak.
She guffaws like I’ve missed another crucial memo for aspiring wives.
“No, silly. It’s a style between a thong and a G-string.”
The material feels like butter between my fingertips. The first set is a shade so close to my skin tone, I’ll probably look like I’m wearing patches of lace. The other set is the color of Dex’s eyes: blue hydrangeas at the height of summer.
“Julia, they’re beautiful,” I say in all sincerity. I’ve never owned anything this intricate. “Thank you so much.”
“Keep going! There’s more.”
I remove the next layer to find what she calls a “babydoll.” That’s a misnomer because there’s nothing babyish or dollish about it. The cups are completely sheer except for wires hidden under lace. The flowing bottom half is likewise a mix of sheer and lace in fiery red.
“This is adjustable,” she says while pointing at a strap and standing up. “You want the hem to end right here.” Her hand makes a sawing motion on her backside, right under her ass.
“Oh, yeah, of course,” I mumble like I know what I’m talking about. Heat spreads up my neck when I lay the flimsy material on the bed alongside the lacy sets.
“I’ll walk you through the last one,” she says, making a hand gesture that encourages me to hurry. “This is our best-selling teddy.”
Why are lingerie names so darn cute when there’s nothing cute about this web of black straps? I hold it up for careful scrutiny.
Seriously, what goes where?
Julia instructs me enthusiastically. “This is a three-point binding underwear with hollow webbing that you can adjust once we put it on.”
“The only words I recognize are put it on. Everything else sounds terrifying.”
She laughs. “The thing to remember is that when you step into it, make sure this clasp is up and behind you.”
I’m about to write down instructions when we hear Maxine roaming the hallway.
“Where is everybody?” she calls.
“Don’t worry. I’ll show you later,” Julia promises. “We should go before she barges in.”
The thought of Dexter’s mom seeing the lingerie is so embarrassing, my eyes water a little. I repackage them in the box as quickly as possible.
It might be risqué for some people, but I see Julia’s offering for what it is. Clothes—or in this case, the sexy scarcity of clothes—is her love language.
In a unique and thoughtful way, she’s welcoming me to the family as her sister. Although I can’t imagine wearing this in front of anyone, especially my fake husband and platonic friend, I’m eager to try them on and experience why Julia loves them so much.
“Thank you. These are extravagant and beautiful things I couldn’t begin to choose for myself. I’m so grateful.”
“That’s what sisters are for,” Julia says when we hug.
Once again, irony rears its joker’s head. Except now it isn’t funny or harmless.
Dex and I ironed out paperwork, timeline, and living arrangements. What we didn’t do is take into account how others will process the breakup.
When we divorce next year, how will people like Logan or Julia take it?
Maxine and Charles are already giddy at the thought of grandkids. Will they feel betrayed? Angry?
Will this negatively affect Dex’s relationship with his friends and family?
Oh shit, this could really backfire for him.
I’m getting my life back while he’s risking the trust of the most important people in his life. What was supposed to fix a problem has the potential to create an even bigger one.