Chapter 12
Delaney
Warner lying on the street.
A crowd gathering and blocking my view.
The shock of watching a car hit him like he wasn’t a human.
The guilt. The debate. The disappointment. The race to save him.
The memory plays out like a movie in my head, causing my hands to shake. The panic I felt, the concern, the weight of prayers I laid on that man in hopes of his survival wash through me like a tidal wave.
As memories spiral, a shiver runs down my spine. Cool air hits my neck moments before I come back to the present. Someone is touching me. My hair is stroked to the side just as lips find my neck, and I shriek.
“Hey—Argh!” My elbow is still attached to his gut when I realize it’s Warner. “I think I’m going to puke.” He’s bent over heaving with his broken arm held against his stomach. “Fuck, Delaney. You punched the air out of my lungs. I can’t breathe.”
“Sounds like you’re doing just fine by all the yapping.” I pat him on the back and leave my hand there. “Anyway, I don’t know what world you live in, but don’t sneak up behind a woman on the streets of New York and accost her.”
He straightens up as much as he can, which still leaves him slightly hunched forward. “I wasn’t sneaking up.”
Moving in front of him, I look him over just in case I really did some damage.
Other than him being red in the face, whether from the blow or his anger, I think he’s good.
“Well, whatever you thought was a good idea wasn’t.
Good news, though, you’re going to live, Warner. As long as you don’t try that again.”
“I was kissing my wife,” he groans. “Trust me, I won’t make that mistake again.”
The words run through my veins like the smoothest of wines in the Italian countryside, warm like a cozy fire after coming home from a wintry day, or the softest sheets wrapped around me while sleeping in Warner’s bed.
“Delaney, hello?” He waves his big paw in front of my face. “Delaney? You still with us?”
“No, I slipped away,” I snark, and turn from him, too afraid to meet his eyes and have the bubble burst, leaving me back in a reality of lies.
I much prefer this version. Under this guise, it’s more idyllic and less venomous.
I turn back to see if the world has come to an end or if we’re still in the middle of a sham.
The warmth of his eyes holds less ire and more .
. . consideration? “Humanity looks good on you, Landers.”
Damn it. I even find the line between his furrowed brows attractive. I must be coming down with something. All this just because he called me his wife?
I knew this plan was ridiculous and most likely wouldn’t work, but I didn’t think I’d react as ludicrously to him.
He’s a man. A guy. That’s it. Who cares if the soulful blue of his eyes lures me in every time he stares at me like he wants to either kiss me or kill me?
It might be both. Either way, he looks good.
And I’m not going to even mention those hands of his as I stare at them now. Big, ready to hold more than a handful of my smallish frame. I could perch like a parrot from that palm of his and be perfectly content.
“What are we talking about?” His voice throws a wrench in the cog of my thoughts. “Delaney?” He snaps his fingers in front of him, the sound pulling my attention back to him. “Disappeared again? Am I going to have to tie you down?”
“Shh. Let’s not ruin it.” I flip my hair over my shoulders, wishing I hadn’t lent him my only hair elastic. I never got it back. My mom always says nothing is ever a loan. Just gift it and be done with it. I never understood what she meant until now. “What . . . what do you mean by tie me down?”
“So you don’t float away from me again.”
First, I’m his wife that he wanted to kiss. Now, he wants to tie me to him? Though the image of him tying me down to his heaven of a bed isn’t his worst idea. Or was that my idea? Either way, there’s tying between us.
What the heck is going on?
He went up to his office, where I knew for sure I’d be busted as some woman with a vendetta impersonating a wife he never had.
But that’s not how it played out. Whatever happened in that building is working in my favor.
Thank the Patron Saint of Suggestio Falsi for saving my behind and keeping the plan on track.
Warner Landers’s charming ways would typically have me eating up the sweet nothings.
It’s Warner, though, so my guard goes up instantly.
Am I losing control of the situation? Falling prey to a hot guy?
Again? It’s not the first time I’ve made the mistake of crossing lines with someone who didn’t deserve my time.
This is a stark reminder that he’s the man who is callously stripping away not only my family’s livelihood but also our home.
That makes my stomach twist into knots. It’s almost easier to put the emphasis on the restaurant than the home my family has lived in well before I was born.
Tears will come if I give it even a minute of my time. Don’t think about it, Delaney.
I exhale and fix my disposition. A new Warner means fresh opportunities to make his life hell before he drags down mine and my family’s.
I smile at him, but can tell it’s too big, and probably too telling of my intentions, judging by how he takes a step back.
I’m tired of being on, so I release that energy and try to relax. “Hey?”
He comes closer and we start strolling. I’m glad to leave that situation behind and to be moving forward. Literally and figuratively. “Hey.” He bumps his arm against mine. If I’m not mistaken, he’s almost playful. Oh, he’s good. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Let’s find out.” I stop again to use my hands. Holding three fingers out, I say, “Spill it on the count of three. Three. Two. One—”
“Gelato.”
“Ice cream.” My mouth falls open. “Wow, we were thinking about the same thing.”
“Almost,” he replies, walking down the sidewalk from me.
I jog to catch up. “Almost is accurate. Ice cream is far superior to gelato.”
“No.”
Stopping at the corner, I glare at him. “What do you mean, no?”
He shrugs, but his gaze narrows. It’s subtle, but I think his breathing has quickened when I see his chest moving. The flex of his fingers and the lick of his lips don’t deter him from staring at the crosswalk signal like his life depends on it.
Oh.
Swiping the back of his hand across his forehead, he opens his mouth to take in air as if he wasn’t getting enough.
I’m no expert, but I think he’s close to having a panic attack.
That would make sense. Here we are in the vicinity of where it happened.
No doubt he’s lucky to be alive with only minor injuries, considering what could have been horrific on another level.
I’ll probably hate myself for doing this, but right now, I don’t matter.
He does. Looking between us, I slip my hand in his and tighten my hold on him.
His gaze stays forward, but his fingers curl around mine as if this is something we regularly do.
When the signal changes and the others around us take off, I move close to him, and whisper, “We can cross together.”
There’s no response, not verbally anyway, but he holds my hand across the two lanes.
Although I expect him to drop my hand like a hot potato at any moment, he doesn’t.
Warner’s grip tightens with no intention of letting go, as if I’m his to hold.
My mouth goes dry as I attempt to swallow and fail.
I clear my throat, hoping it helps my mind.
It’s not my mind I’m most worried about. It’s another stupid organ in my chest.
And when his breathing evens out again and color returns to his face, he says, “Ice cream is not superior.” Picking up as if there was never a lapse in conversation.
The transition was abrupt, but for his ego, I won’t bring up what just happened.
Seems he prefers it that way. “I can appreciate the creaminess. It’s heavy, though.
Gelato is lighter but packed with flavor. You don’t need syrup or cherries—”
“No whipped cream or bananas?” My head is still stuck on the fact that he’s holding my hand. Willingly. I glance down just to see the connection firsthand again.
Chuckling, he connects his gaze with mine for the first time since we crossed. Life has returned to his eyes, a playful mischievousness, but only for the quickest moment in time before he returns his focus ahead of us. “Not needed.”
“Speak for yourself. Don’t you just love popping that cherry?” His feet stop suddenly, causing my body to yank in protest because I foolishly kept walking without noticing the change in pace. I steady my footing, angling to look up at him. “What?”
“You can’t say things like that and expect me not to react.”
“Say what?” Rewinding through the immediate conversation, I laugh. “The cherry thing? I didn’t even think of it that way, ya dirty bird.”
“I’m the dirty bird?” He manages his broken arm against his chest as if my insinuation inspired the move.
But it’s not that side effect that has my chest feeling tight.
It’s that he forfeited using his “good” hand in lieu of holding my hand.
He’s chuckling. “I’m not the one going around talking about popping cherries.
You are with your wide blue eyes and those lips that look dipped in juice. ”
“Juice?”
“Cherry juice.”
“Oh.” And although I have so many follow-up questions to that statement, we’re not those people.
We’re enemies who have laid down our weapons for a little while, and this hand-holding business has muddled my emotions.
“It’s a new lip stain I bought at the drugstore earlier this week. Glad it’s working.”
“It’s working alright.”
I hold tight to the thoughts busying my mind, the ones that are sending my heart to beat into overdrive.
I swallow them down to protect myself. Maybe it’s the conversation or the warmth of his hand or the good time this has turned into, but if I’m not careful, I might fall for this man.
Even if he is getting easier on the eyes as time passes, I can’t let it happen.
Not when I know the real circumstances of our relationship.
Keeping my head on straight, my heart in check, and him in the dark is best. I slip my hand out of his as easily as I had placed it there.
He carries on like it makes no difference at all to him, rambling on about something to do with density in creams and how gelato is made in some special way.
It’s dumb that I’ve put myself in a position of being vulnerable to him.
I’m probably just tired and out of sorts from the chaotic few days we’ve lived.
“Where did you say this place was?”
With a glance over at me, he grins. “I didn’t. I know a place nearby, though.”
I desperately need this distraction. My head is doing me in when he’s not already affecting me. To get out of my brain altogether, I hold my fingers to my mouth and send a chef’s kiss. “I need a little something for my sweet tooth.”
“You have a sweet tooth?”
“Kind of. It’s more for desserts at night than candy during the day.”
I hear his hum before he mutters under his breath, “Fascinating.”
Not worrying about his views on anything to do with me, and more focused back on why he’s suddenly treating me like his wife, I should move this along. “Why does it feel so late?”
Checking his watch, he replies, “Eight fifteen.”
“Would you be mad if we skipped this trip and headed back to the apartment?”
“Why would I be mad?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. You wanted gelato?”
“I can have gelato waiting for us before we get back home.” Home rolls off his tongue so effortlessly that goosebumps cover my arms in response. “I’ll need to borrow your phone, though. Mine is still mysteriously missing.”
Pulling my phone from my purse, I hand it to him.
He only has it long enough to make a quick call and hand it back to me.
But it’s enough time for my heart to squeeze from this turn in the relationship, the way I feel safe in his company while still quietly reveling in the use of the word home like it represents both of us.
When he’s finished, he steps to the curb, looking both ways. When his arm goes into the air, I realize it’s a getaway. But not from me. With me. To go “home” together.
I had already planned to stay the night, and after the way goose bumps covered my skin from just a brush of his lips against my neck, I can’t say I’m opposed to more.
But Warner is making me think that gelato is code for a trap, especially when a cab pulls to the curb and he’s quick to open the door for me.
It was one thing when I was leading this charge, but under his command, what situation am I getting myself into?