Chapter 11
Scottie
I’LL PLAY
It shouldn’t feel this natural.
I was caught off guard. I was unprepared. It’s Gavin, for crying out loud!
But holy hell, I think I might melt on the spot.
His lips are soft as they move against mine, in complete contrast to the way his large hand is firmly gripping my waist. His other hand slides along my jaw, cupping it possessively, and I swear I feel it all the way down my spine.
A small sound crawls up my throat—a soft, helpless noise—and I can’t decide if it’s my undoing or his.
One second the kiss is slow and the next I’m being properly claimed.
Devoured. Consumed. Absolutely ruined. His tongue meets mine, stroking against it like he’s coaxing me to go down the deep end with him.
I’d let him fucking drown me if it meant he’d never stop.
Our bodies press closer, and the pull between us is magnetic—so strong it overrides reason.
The urge to grind against him, to feel every delicious inch, has my hips moving before I even realize it.
The second I do, he pulls back, his eyes locking on mine—shock and want colliding in the space between us.
I feel drunk or drugged or both. My pulse is everywhere—my wrists, my throat, my lips.
“Uh,” I say, blinking up at him, his hands still holding me in place. “Hi?”
“Hi.” His voice is smooth, as he finally releases me from his grasps.
The listing agent clears her throat delicately beside us. “Well,” she says, smiling a little too brightly, “welcome! You must be Mrs.…?”
“Ledger,” Gavin provides. “Mrs. Ledger.”
Oh. Oh my God.
Mrs. Ledger?
There are only two possible reactions to this situation: one, panic; or two, improvise.
Lucky for me, improvising is literally my only marketable skill.
“That’s me.” The words tumble out in a rush, my voice an octave higher than normal. “I’m Scottie, his wife—and his real estate agent.”
Like he’s done this before, Gavin’s arm slides around my shoulders, warm and solid, pulling me in closer.
The agent beams. “Well, that’s convenient. Feel free to take your time looking around. I’ll be here if you have any questions.”
Gavin nods his thanks and starts steering us toward the house before I can open my mouth to say anything incriminating.
Once we’re safely inside, his arm still draped around me, I hiss under my breath, “What the hell was that?”
He leans in close, his breath dusting my ear. “Just go with it.”
Oh, I’ll go with it. If he wants to play pretend, fine—I’ll play. And I’ll win.
I loop my arm around his waist and lean my head against his shoulder, letting out an exaggerated sigh. “Isn’t it perfect, honey?” I say loudly enough for nearby couples to hear. “It’s exactly what we’ve been dreaming of.”
He stiffens almost imperceptibly, and my inner troublemaker grins.
“Oh, absolutely, hone— sweetheart, yeah,” he says, muscle ticking in his jaw.
We move through the entryway, sunlight glancing off polished hardwood and sweeping up toward vaulted ceilings.
The air smells faintly of lemon cleaner.
I lace my fingers through his and give his hand a playful squeeze.
“Imagine Lily running through here,” I say, milking it for all it’s worth.
“Maybe we could even put the Christmas tree right there.”
Gavin grunts. “Uh-huh.”
“Or maybe two trees,” I add. “You love trees, don’t you, babe?”
He clears his throat. “Sure do.”
Oh, this is fun.
I brush my thumb along the back of his hand just to watch him squirm. He’s trying to look composed, but I can see the tension building in his shoulders. For a man who always looks so unaffected, it’s kind of thrilling watching him unravel.
We pass a few other buyers, and I lean into him, whispering, “Smile, darling. People are watching.”
His mouth twitches like he’s fighting a laugh—or something else entirely. “You’re an evil woman,” he murmurs.
“You have no idea,” I whisper back, squeezing his side affectionately.
By the time we make it upstairs, I’ve ramped up my performance to Oscar-worthy levels.
I stroke his arm while cooing over the built-ins.
I tuck myself under his arm and call him “lovebug.” I even reach up and smooth a nonexistent wrinkle in his shirt collar while other couples glance our way, probably thinking we’re disgustingly in love.
And he’s dying.
I can tell by the way his breathing deepens, the way his voice keeps dropping an octave when he tries to speak.
We step into the primary suite, the bright sun spilling through the massive windows, the view of the lake so beautiful it doesn’t look real.
I decide it’s time for my final act. My hand drifts down his chest as I rise onto my toes and whisper, “Can you imagine waking up here on a hot summer morning? Me in nothing but lingerie, sprawled across the bed, waiting for you?”
He swallows hard. “Scottie.”
“Yes, dear husband?”
His answer is to grab my hand and pull me into the walk-in closet.
I stumble a little, laughing as he shuts the door behind us. “Trying to consummate the marriage, I see?”
He exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“Oh, come on.” I fold my arms, grinning. “You kissed me without warning, didn’t tell me what was going on, and then expected me to just go with it. What did you think would happen?”
“I thought you’d…go with it,” he says, sounding slightly strangled.
“I did. Exceptionally well, if I may add. Now, explain.”
He groans quietly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I overheard the owners outside before you got here. They said they wanted to sell to a young couple. A family. Someone who’d love the place like they did. So when they asked, I said I was waiting for my wife.”
I flutter my eyes at him, still smirking. “So naturally, your next logical step was to kiss me in front of witnesses.”
“I never claimed to know what I was doing. I just acted.”
“Yeah,” I say, tilting my head. “You definitely acted.”
Acted so well, there’s a needy pressure building between my thighs, desperately seeking relief. And I have no one to blame but myself because I just had to taunt him.
He finally looks at me then—really looks—and my breath catches. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes that wasn’t there before. Something that makes my stomach twist and my skin hum.
“Please,” he says.
It’s a simple word, but not a simple request. Please lie for me. Please pretend to be my wife. Please keep this between us. Please don’t make me regret this. Please help.
“Fine,” I say softly, breaking the tension. “We’ll play your little married couple game. But next time you want to fake a relationship, maybe give your wife a heads-up before you stick your tongue in her mouth.”
He feigns defensiveness as a slow grin tugs at his lips.“You stuck your tongue in my mouth first. I was reacting.”
“Mm-hmm. And for the record”—I step closer, just because I can—“that was for revenge.”
“Revenge?” His voice is low now, amused and rough.
“Yep.” I smile sweetly. “For roping me into this.”
He chuckles, the sound soft and genuine, and the space between us suddenly feels too small, too warm.
“Remind me to never get on your bad side,” he murmurs.
“Oh, Gavie, honey,” I say, brushing past him toward the door, “you’re already on it.”
We leave the closet unnoticed.
Gavin walks a few steps ahead, with total composure, while I’m still trying to figure out if my racing heart has plans to ever return to normal.
Just because I can look fine and dandy on the outside doesn’t mean I’m not spiraling out of control on the inside.
We wander through the primary suite and down the wide staircase into a living room that looks straight out of a travel ad for the Pacific Northwest. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the lake, sunlight sparkling off the water. Everything about it screams cozy.
“This place is incredible,” I murmur, mostly to myself.
“Yeah,” Gavin says, glancing around. “It’s something.”
Understatement of the century.
We pass through the living room toward the entry, and that’s when he slows, eyes narrowing ever so slightly. His hand brushes my arm—a subtle nudge—and my brain instantly shifts into alert mode.
“What?” I whisper.
He nods toward an older couple by the front windows, chatting easily with the listing agent and a few other potential buyers. “Those are the owners,” he says. “Carl and Maggie. They’re the ones selling.”
I follow his gaze. They’re adorable. He’s tall and silver-haired, wearing a chambray button-down tucked into jeans, and she’s in linen pants and a loose cream blouse—very effortlessly chic.
“Oh,” I say quietly, leaning closer. “The ones who started this whole mess?”
His lips twitch. “Those would be the ones.”
“Well,” I whisper, straightening my posture and fixing my hair, “if you want me to give them a show, I’ll give them one.”
Before he can stop me, I hook my arm through his and give him a sugary smile. “Aren’t you glad you roped me into this?”
His quiet groan almost makes me laugh.
As we walk down toward the great room, I can sense his gaze flicking to me in his peripheral vision, probably questioning if forcing me into this charade is the best idea.
But he plays along—his hand resting casually over mine, his thumb brushing against my fingers in a way that should not be as distracting as it is.
The couple looks up when we approach. The woman’s face lights up instantly. “Oh, you made it back around! Is this your wife?” she asks, turning her focus toward me.
Gavin’s smile doesn’t falter. “Yes.” He tightens his arm around my shoulders like I might make a bolt for it. “This is Scottie—my wife.”
The words roll off his tongue with unnerving confidence, as if he’s been saying them for years. He looks down at me the way I imagine a man actually in love would look at his spouse.
I swallow and tear my gaze from his. He’s much better at this than I would’ve expected—or maybe I’m already rusty.