Chapter 8
eight
WEST
We’ve been in the air for over four hours, and I’ve spent most of it going through emails, typing out instructions to my assistant, and checking Eden’s travel arrangements, to make sure she got in safely.
I’m still irked that she wanted to take a train. But her reasoning made sense, so I didn’t argue. Not too much.
Funny, how before either of us said ‘I do,’ we’d never clashed. Now she seems constantly annoyed with me. And to be honest, I enjoy riling her up. I like the way she looks when she scowls. Which luckily for me, is all the damn time.
This is why people should live together before they get married. Or at least sleep together. An image of her on my bed in Vegas flashes into my mind. That dress, bunched up to her thighs. Her face down on the pillow.
Any red blooded man would have woken her up and shown her just how beautiful she looked.
As for me, I sat there and schemed.
I close the file on my tablet and swipe over to the North House security feed, installed by Asher because nobody does security like him. There are six camera angles. Five show nothing but gleaming hardwood floors and untouched surfaces. But there’s movement in the sixth.
Eden arrived on Liberty an hour ago. I know, because Parker was messaging me and told me Autumn had gone to pick her up from the ferry. I also know because I planted a tracker in her backpack.
I wonder what she’s doing. What she’s thinking.
I wonder that way too often for my own good. Or my blood pressure’s good.
On my laptop screen, Autumn’s SUV pulls into the driveway. She comes to a stop, and for a second there’s no movement. Like they’re sitting talking.
But then, Eden steps out of the sleek car, grabs her beat-up backpack from the trunk, and lifts a hand to say goodbye to Autumn.
She stomps up to the front door, like she’s planning on taking her annoyance out on the lock, and her wild hair lifts in the breeze, revealing the smooth curve of her neck.
The elegance of it is a complete contrast to the cut off jeans and combat boot combo she’s wearing.
I guess the long trip hasn’t tamed her.
I exhale slowly and set the tablet down on the polished walnut table in front of me, still watching her.
The interior of the jet is quiet. Cream leather seats.
Dark walnut accents. A crystal tumbler of Scotch untouched beside my elbow.
I could be anywhere. But my thoughts are concentrated on Liberty Island right now.
And the tornado that’s walking into my house.
She keys in the number I gave her to the front pad, and walks into the house like she owns the place.
Which she kind of does. As my wife, she technically has access to every room in that house. Right until I get the final payment from the bank and can repay Vin his money, this is hers.
Which is why I shouldn’t be surprised when, thirty seconds after she drops her battered rucksack on the floor and kicks off her boots, she starts to stomp down the hallway.
“What are you doing?” I murmur, watching her pause at my office door. I’m somewhere between amused and annoyed. I’m not used to sharing my spaces – I was a particularly defensive only child growing up – so watching somebody wandering around my space feels like a whole new level of intrusion.
She tries the handle. Locked. I smirk. Of course it’s fucking locked. Double, actually. There’s no way she’s getting anywhere near my office without me there.
Undeterred, she opens every other door on the first floor, pausing for a moment in the huge open plan living area that’s filled with every single luxury a person could ask for.
And then she heads for the stairs as I change camera views. Her modus operandi is the same, each door is opened, each room looked at. It doesn’t take her that long, it’s not a huge house. Just big enough.
When she stops at the last room along the hallway I lean forward, a strange itch forming on the back of my neck. It’s my bedroom. She pushes the handle and of course this one is open, and she disappears inside like she’s won the lottery.
I swipe to the next camera angle, catching her pulling open my walk in closet. I can see the open gape of her mouth as she takes it in. I asked my assistant to get me a second wardrobe for the island – I hate packing – and from the looks of it she’s done a good job.
Not that Eden pauses to take in the beauty that is a perfectly color-coded, pressed set of clothes worth more than fifty thousand dollars. No, she’s too busy rifling through the shelves.
She lifts one of my button-downs and sniffs it. I bark out a laugh because what was she expecting it to smell like? The thing is new.
But she still makes a face as she breathes it in, her pretty nose wrinkling.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter. Of course she’d snoop. I have a feeling she’ll invade every boundary I’ve built in my life if I let her.
Before I can keep watching my phone buzzes. Hudson’s name flashes on the screen.
I hit answer and lean back in the seat, dragging a hand across the back of my neck like I hadn’t been watching my brand new wife performing a personal audit of my clothes.
“Hey.”
“Hi,” he says. “You in the air?”
I glance at my watch. “Starting to descend now. I should be on the island within a couple of hours.”
There’s a beat of silence. “Thanks for getting Eden home. It means a lot.” The way he says it, so genuinely, makes my chest tight.
“It’s what friends do,” I say casually, ignoring the guilt that I’ve been feeling way too often in the last few days. I don’t like it. “She needed a new start and Liberty is where you want her to be.”
“Autumn told me you gave Eden a job.”
I love Autumn, but she has a big mouth. And sometimes I use it to do my dirty work. “Yeah, I mean it’s not critical to the project, but I thought she…”
“It’s genius. It’ll give her a reason to stay and I’m all for that. I like her being close. Where I can keep an eye on her.”
Yeah, ditto.
I glance down at my tablet. Eden has flopped back on my bed like she owns it. She’s got one arm over her eyes and a frown carved into her mouth like the weight of the world lives there.
“You always come through for me, man,” Hudson says, his voice warm. Grateful. And it hits me harder than I expect. “Don’t think I don’t see that.”
My gut tightens. I’d do anything for Hudson. Apart from tell him the truth, obviously. He doesn’t need to know. He’ll just worry. And I’ve got it covered.
“I do what needs to be done.”
“Yeah, well I appreciate it. Even if sometimes I don’t want to know the details.”
Touché. So, fucking touché.
He ends the call before the guilt hits me again. I glance back at the security feed right as Eden pulls open the top drawer of my nightstand.
I hit a button and lean into the microphone.
“Eden, there are security cameras in every room. I can see exactly what you’re doing.”
She jumps off the bed like she’s been electrocuted.
And I’m still laughing when the wheels touch down on the tarmac.
EDEN
It takes less than thirty minutes for me to realize how characterless West’s isolated beach house is.
It’s the kind of home that belongs in a glossy magazine, not in real life, and definitely not in mine. The silence buzzes in my ears as I wander through the glass doors in the open-plan living space, barefoot onto the polished patio, trying – and failing – not to feel like an intruder.
From here I can see the waves crashing against the shoreline below, and the steps carved into the rock that take you down to the shore. But it’s the scene to the left that draws my attention and makes me walk around to the side of the house.
The resort construction site is in the distance. Cranes rise like mechanical beasts, machinery crawling across the land like an alien invader.
The last time I stood on this northern tip of the island, I was a barefoot teenager, chasing Hudson down the dunes. And for a second I feel more alone than I ever have in my life. There’s a rumble of an engine in the distance and it’s like my body reacts before my brain does.
I don’t want to be excited and I absolutely don’t want to care. But I do.
The truth is, I’m already tired of the bickering. I have to do this for three months. Possibly longer. Maybe we should give each other a break. Work together. As a kid I loved West like an older brother.
Just because we have a piece of paper tying us together right now, doesn’t mean anything has changed.
I walk back into the house and down the hallway, my heart beating faster with each crunch of gravel from the tires. A moment later, his sleek black SUV comes into view, cresting the bend in the driveway like it owns the place.
I check my face in the glass. I look flushed but not sweaty, thanks to the shower I took half an hour ago.
My hair is actually behaving for once, and I have a pretty dress on – one I found in the guest room closet, with a label that says it’s made from sustainable cotton.
There were a lot of brand new clothes in there.
I assume that’s West’s doing, and I haven’t stolen from one of his rich girlfriend’s wardrobes by accident.
The SUV rolls to a stop in front of the house and for a second, I actually feel nervous. Which is absurd. I roll my eyes at myself.
The driver’s side door opens and West steps out.
He has a phone pressed to his ear, sunglasses shielding his eyes. He’s wearing a crisp white shirt – sleeves rolled, collar open – paired with a pair of navy pants that definitely weren’t bought off the rack. Gah, I hate the way this man is so stupidly handsome.
And I’m married to him.
He glances up and sees me. And then he keeps talking. “Yeah, exactly. File the motion, get them into rehab, and say nothing to the press.”
And then he walks right past me.
No ‘Hey, you look nice.’ No ‘Thanks for not burning the place down.’ Or ‘Sorry I was spying on you.’ He barely acknowledges that I’m here to greet him. He just raises his hand and carries on the conversation he’s having.
Still talking, he heads for his office with the phone still glued to his ear, unlocks the door, and disappears inside without a single word.
The click of the lock might as well be the punchline to the joke I made of myself.
God I’m an idiot. I’m not here to be his actual wife. I’m here to solve the problem we made in Vegas.
I turn back to the kitchen. Which is, of course, cold and spotless and full of the kind of ingredients that require knife skills and a culinary degree.
But I need something to do, something to shake the awkward hum prickling under my skin.
So I open the fully-stocked fridge and pull out some ingredients.
I’m not exactly Gordon Ramsay but I can make a decent pasta sauce. I start chopping an onion because cooking is movement. And I hate not moving.
I’m halfway through sauteeing the sofrito when the doorbell rings. I wipe my hands on a towel and walk to the front door, opening it to find a delivery guy holding a huge gilded gift box.
I don’t recognize him. He must either be a new island addition or come over on the ferry to deliver it. Either way, he hands it over without a word before turning around and heading right back to his van.
The label says ‘To the newlyweds.’
I try not to laugh, because if anybody has seen this, we may as well give up now.
But I don’t recognize the guy, and I know that delivery drivers rarely live on the island, so we should be safe from the local gossip.
As soon as he heads back to the van, I glance at the closed office door that West is no doubt pacing behind, then back at the package. No, he doesn’t deserve to open it.
And I’ve always loved presents. So I lift the lid. Alone.
Inside is a bottle of vintage Italian champagne, two crystal flutes, and a very expensive—but unmistakably risqué—set of lingerie in lipstick red. There’s also a card:
To Mr. and Mrs. Abbott — May the sun always shine on your married life.
— Vin Marchetti.
Oh, that must be West’s investor. I’m admiring the silkiness of the lingerie when the office door opens behind me. West’s voice echoes down the hallway.
“Was that the door? Is everything okay?”
I turn, holding up the teddy like a trophy.
“Vin Marchetti sends his regards,” I tell him. “And possibly an invitation to start an OnlyFans.”
His brow arches, his gaze skimming the scrap of red silk, but he says nothing.
“It’s okay,” I tell him. “Don’t panic. I don’t wear red.”
“You wore a lot of it in Vegas,” he says. “Mostly paint.”
I wrinkle my nose at him. But when I catch his eyes I see something dark there. A second later, it’s gone.
My breath still catches though.
And then he tips his head to the side. “Is something burning?”
My skin, mostly. But then I remember the sofrito. Shit. I leave the box in the hall and run barefoot to the kitchen, letting out a groan as I see the blackened onions, carrots, and celery.
“Oh.” I pout, because I can’t even make pasta without getting it wrong.
I feel the warmth of him behind me before I hear his voice in my ear.
“Are you cooking?” he asks, sounding almost appalled as he stares over my shoulder.
“Yes,” I say, coughing as I open the window to air out the smoke. “I thought I’d make us some dinner. Thought you’d appreciate a Stepford Wife.”
There’s a pause.
“I ate on the flight,” he tells me.
Of course he did.
I glance at the beginnings of my sauce, which is now somewhere between charred and cremated, and fight the wave of heat flushing up my neck.
I’m embarrassed. This is why I don’t bother. Why I prefer animals to people.
He hasn’t asked how I’m settling in. Hasn’t mentioned the dress. Or the fact that I’m in his kitchen making him dinner and trying to be nice.
I haven’t asked for much. Just a flicker of recognition or a smile. Something to make this feel less like a mistake.
But I guess this West Abbott doesn’t deal in flickers. “Probably a good thing,” I say lightly, turning to look at him. “And don’t cry to me when you’ve missed your only chance to taste my spaghetti.”
He holds my gaze, blinking like he’s trying to work me out. Then his phone starts to ring again.
He glances at the blackened pan. “Remind me to update the prenup to include fire insurance.” Then he pulls his phone out of his pocket, letting out the softest of sighs when he reads the screen. “Excuse me,” he murmurs.
And then he’s gone, leaving the silence behind him like a slammed door.