Chapter 18
THE BEST WORST DECISION
DAVINA
I woke up to sunlight streaming through unfamiliar blackout curtains that apparently didn’t understand their job description.
Remembering where I was, I shot up so fast I nearly gave myself whiplash. The other side of the bed was empty, the covers were pulled up neatly, but his pillow still had the indent of his head.
The clock on the nightstand flashed 7:31 AM.
I flopped back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling fan rotating overhead. The house was too quiet.
I pulled myself out of bed, my body protesting the movement.
I shuffled out of the room and down the hallway, following the scent of coffee. The living room was empty.
The kitchen was just as nice and organized as the rest of the house, with white cabinets, granite countertops, and stainless steel appliances. A coffee maker sat on the counter, its little light glowing red, a full pot of dark roast that smelled like heaven.
And next to it, propped against the sugar bowl, was a note written on a small piece of paper.
I picked it up.
Wifey,
I rolled my eyes. He only called me that because he knew it annoyed me.
Went for a run, didn't want to wake you. You looked too beautiful sleeping in my bed (Though you do definitely snore. Just a little. It's cute.)
I smiled at the note.
Coffee's ready. Make yourself at home. Explore. Raid the fridge. Pants are optional, but probably recommended if you go outside. The neighbors are nice, but they're also very chatty.
Be back soon.
—Your adoring fake husband
P.S. There's creamer in the fridge. The good kind.
I read it twice.
“Too beautiful sleeping in my bed,” I muttered to the empty kitchen, feeling my face heat. “Oh, he's good.”
It was honestly too bad that he didn’t want to get married because he had the potential to make a good husband.
I found a mug in the cabinet, on a shelf at a reasonable height that didn't require a step stool.
The creamer in the fridge was, as promised, the good kind. Real cream, not the shelf-stable stuff. I poured a generous amount into my coffee, added a spoonful of sugar, and took a sip.
Perfect. Damn him.
I wandered through the house with my coffee, taking in details I'd missed last night. The morning light streaming through the windows made everything look even better.
French doors at the back of the living room led to what I assumed was the backyard. I tried the handle, unlocked, and stepped outside.
And stopped dead.
“Oh, you've got to be kidding me.”
The backyard was small, with a patio that extended from the house, but that wasn't what made my jaw drop.
It was the view.
Beyond the deck, past a small stretch of grass and a privacy fence with a gate, was the ocean. The morning sun sparkled on the water like someone had scattered diamonds across the surface. I could hear the waves and smell the salty air.
“His backyard is on the ocean,” I muttered. “This is definitely nicer than my place,” I said as I sipped my coffee and walked to the end of the deck, leaning against the railing.
I was definitely going to need to renegotiate the terms of this fake marriage.
“Morning, wifey.”
I jumped, coffee sloshing close to the rim of my mug, as I spun around to find Dallas standing in the doorway.
He was shirtless. Again. And sweaty.
His chest was gleaming with perspiration, his hair damp and messy. He wore black athletic shorts that hung low on his hips, and his skin had that post-workout flush.
He was holding a water bottle, drinking from it in a way that made his throat work, his Adam's apple bobbing, and I had to physically look away before I did something embarrassing.
“Jesus Christ,” I muttered into my coffee mug.
“Bless you,” he said cheerfully, stepping out onto the deck like he wasn't actively committing assault with his torso. “Sleep okay?”
“I… yes…fine…” I gulped coffee that burned my tongue. “You could warn a person before showing up looking like... like you got lost on your way to a Men's Health cover shoot. I could've prepared.”
His grin was pure sin. He moved to the railing beside me. “It's my backyard. Should I wear a parka? Full body armor? A hazmat suit?”
“Yes. Ideally, something inflatable. Maybe a dinosaur costume.”
“Noted.” He took another drink of water, and I focused very intently on the ocean, counting waves. “What do you think of the view?”
“It's fine,” I lied. “I mean, if you like that whole breathtaking natural beauty thing. Personally, I prefer views of dumpsters and questionable parking lot activity, but that's just me.”
“Liar.” His voice dropped, warm and teasing. “So I was thinking we should spend today getting organized. Figure out schedules, pick where we're living, come up with a game plan.”
I nodded, grateful for the subject change. “An exit strategy.” I needed out of this marriage ASAP. Before I started getting ideas about things that would never happen. Like real marriage. To him. Which was absolutely not on the table and definitely not what I wanted anyway.
“I was thinking on my run this morning…”
“You run?” I stared at him. “Voluntarily? For fun?”
He laughed. “Anyway. I think we should bring in my publicist.” His expression turned serious. “I don't want this blowing up and hurting you or your business. Or my reputation. She can help us navigate this without casualties.”
The fact that he was thinking of me and my business made my chest do this weird swelling thing. “That's... really smart.”
“I'll call her today. See if she can meet with us. Sam's brilliant at damage control.”
“Sam?” I tried to keep my voice casual. “She?”
His mouth quirked, clearly amused. “Yes.”
“Is she...” I trailed off, hating myself.
“No.” His tone shifted, more serious. “I don't mix business and pleasure. Ever. Plus, Sam's been married to her wife for over ten years. They just adopted a baby.”
Relief flooded through me, which was not the correct response to have about my fake husband's professional relationships.
“You've got nothing to worry about, wifey,” he smirked, leaning closer. “I'm all yours.”
“Oh my God.” I groaned, heat flooding my face. “I’m not worried and… Stop calling me that.”
“Never.” He pushed off the railing. “I'm gonna shower. You want breakfast? I make a mean omelet.”
“You cook too?” I turned back to him.
“I do,” he said. “Give me twenty minutes. Make yourself at home. There's a kayak in the shed if you're feeling adventurous.” He paused in the doorway. “Oh, and wifey?”
“What?”
“You might want to fix your hair. You've got some serious bed head happening. Very electrocuted rooster chic.”
I threw my coffee mug at him—or would have, if it wasn't full of excellent coffee that I wasn't willing to waste. Instead, I flipped him off.
His laugh echoed as he disappeared inside, leaving me standing on the deck with the ocean breeze, my traitorous heart, and the slowly dawning realization that this fake marriage might be the best and worst decision I'd ever made.
Possibly in that order.
I sipped my coffee and stared at the waves, trying to ignore the fact that I was already thinking about what it would be like to wake up to this view every morning.
I was trying even harder to ignore the fact that the view I was thinking about had more to do with my shirtless, sweaty fake husband and less to do with the ocean.
“I'm in so much trouble.”