Chapter 23
Camila
Since Abby assigned me to tell the people in my life that I’m married, tonight's friend dinner just got hijacked by my confession. That’s why I have four shocked faces staring back at me as I tell the story of how I found myself with a live-in husband. I guess, technically, I’m the live-in wife.
“I cannot believe you didn’t tell us.” Carly’s disbelief is warranted. Normally, I tell these girls everything.
“I couldn’t. The entire arrangement had to be kept confidential.”
“Yeah, but from us?” Emma pouts. “We’re your friends.”
“I couldn’t tell anyone.”
“I wondered how you were paying for law school,” Blair admits.
“Is your husband good-looking?” Juliet’s question sounds superficial, but to a group of girlfriends, it’s a crucial piece of information they need to understand exactly what I’m dealing with.
I decide to downplay Hess’s looks. “He’s not unattractive.”
“That means he’s hot.” Blair points at my phone. “Pull up his social media. We need to see a picture.”
“He doesn’t have social media.” Per the terms of our marriage contract, five and a half years ago.
“Oh, come on!” Blair is impatient. “There has to be a picture of him somewhere.”
“There’s one on the slide presentation he sent me.” I fumble with my phone, searching for it. It’s easy to find, since I’ve looked back at it a time or two—or twelve—the last few months.
“He sent you a slide presentation?” Carly seems impressed.
“Yeah, with bullet points about himself so we could get to know each other better.” I skip over the picture of him as a child and go straight to the family picture, zooming in. I hold up the phone. “There.”
Emma places her hand over her heart. “Oh, my sweet goodness. He’s a cowboy.”
“Maybe a little bit,” I confess, understanding the significance of that all too well. “And not all the time. It’s mostly just when he’s at home. Everywhere else, he looks like a normal guy in normal clothes.”
“Since moving in together, how many fantasies have you had about the cowboy version of him?” Blair asks with a smile.
“None!” I rear back, but all four of my friends incline their heads as if they know I’m lying.
“Okay, I admit to daydreaming about Hess in his cowboy hat, tight jeans, boots, and no shirt.” That’s incriminatingly specific.
“But it’s only been a couple of times, and it’s not really my fault. He’s Yellowstoning me.”
“Yellowstoning you?” Emma’s forehead crinkles. “What does that mean?”
“Girl, have you not heard of the Dutton family?” Blair whistles. “It’s a TV show with a lot of hot men living on a ranch. I mean, Kevin Costner is as old as my dad, but he’s still got it.”
“I'm more of a Rip Wheeler girl myself.” Juliet shrugs.
Carly yanks the phone out of my hands, and they all hover around the screen as she flips through the slides. “Okay, he’s totally Yellowstoning you. Look at this selfie with his horse.”
“See my dilemma?”
“Why is this a dilemma?” Juliet laughs. “You’re married to a hot cowboy. That’s literally been your fantasy for as long as I’ve known you.”
“Not the marriage part,” Carly adds, sending me a knowing glance.
Yes, definitely not the marriage part.
“I just remember you kissing your poster of Tim McGraw when we were in middle school.”
“Well, obviously,” I defend my thirteen-year-old self. “Tim McGraw is a cowboy heartthrob.”
“But this slide presentation is adorable.” Emma sighs. “I would give anything for a man to put that much effort into me.”
“The marriage counselor told us we had to get to know each other. So he was just completing the assignment.”
“No, he was being cute.” Carly hands my phone back.
“Camila Taylor.” Blair lets the name sit on her tongue for a second. “It has a nice ring to it.”
“Do not call me that. This marriage is over in four months.”
“It doesn’t have to be.” Juliet wags her brows up and down.
“Yes, it does.”
“Normally, a guy gives you the ick after the second date. How have you been handling living with a man the past two months?” Carly asks.
“I don’t know. So far, Hess hasn’t done anything that’s grossed me out.”
“Yeah, because he’s freakin’ hot.” Blair tips her drink to me.
“It doesn’t matter how hot he is if he’s a jerk,” Juliet says. “So I’m guessing he’s nice, since you haven’t said anything about that.”
“Hess is one of those guys who likes to take care of his girl—not that I’m his girl.” I catch myself. “I mean, I think he’s that way with everyone.”
Emma leans forward, more interested than ever. “So what does he do for you that’s nice?”
“Just regular stuff.” I shake my head, trying to play it off, even though the list of kind things he’s done is piling up.
Like turning on my AC in the car the other day so it was cooled off by the time I got in.
Or when he brought home crushed ice from the gas station.
Or had Chinese takeout waiting after a long day of work.
He wasn’t joking when he said he was going to show me what it’s like to have someone take care of me.
“You’re going to get the ick from him because he’s too soft and nice,” Blair says. “He’s going to smother you with kindness, and it will be a turn-off. I can already see it.”
“That would be a concern, except he’s not only soft and nice.
” How do I describe Hess? “He’s kind and gentle, but also manly and masculine.
When I left for work this morning, he had the laundry room torn apart and was fixing the washing machine as if it were nothing.
The day before that, he was on the roof, nailing down shingles.
Last week, he backed a huge horse trailer into a tiny spot like a pro.
It’s, like, every time I turn around, he’s doing some rugged manly thing that makes me wonder why I ever thought sharing a life with a man was a bad idea.
” A soft smile drifts over my lips as I think about Hess swinging a hammer around the house.
“Oh, dear.” Carly’s eyes widen.
“What?” I glance around the table, but my gaze shoots back to Carly.
“You like him.”
“I do not.”
“You’re questioning the belief system your entire personality is based upon. I think it’s clear you like him.”
My words come with a derisive laugh. “Saying it’s nice to have some strength and handyman skills around the house does not mean I’m deconstructing my belief system. Besides, we barely even know each other.”
Carly snickers. “I think you know enough to have a raging crush.”
“A raging crush, please!” By the look on their faces, not a single one of my friends buys what I’m saying. “Okay, I can admit to being attracted to Hess and finding him bearable, but that doesn’t mean I have a crush. You know me. I don’t have crushes.”
“Until now,” Blair says under her breath.
“What would be so wrong with liking him?” Emma asks.
“It would complicate everything.”
“You’re living with the man,” Carly snorts. “I think things are already complicated.”
“So what, you just want me to throw caution to the wind and jump the guy?”
Blair smirks. “Why not?”
I list each reason, counting them off on my fingers.
“Because it would make living together awkward. Because I’m busy at work and need to focus on becoming a partner.
Because I’m incapable of being in a relationship.
” And because I’m scared he’ll break my heart and leave like every other husband I’ve seen in my life.
But that reason is too vulnerable to say out loud, so I keep that one for me alone.
“None of those are good enough reasons not to chase after a good guy,” Emma says, and I refrain from snapping back with some rude comment about how she’s not chasing after Vinny. I feel attacked and backed into a corner, but I love Emma too much to embarrass her like that.
“Okay, then, how about the reason that I’m trying to convince my sister she’s making a mistake by getting married to a man she barely knows. How will it look if I suddenly go all in on a marriage with a man I barely know?”
“You’re never going to convince Selena.” Blair slaps the table like she’s fed up with my resistance. “So kiss the hot cowboy you’re married to!”
“I agree.” Juliet nods.
“But what would be the point? We’re getting divorced in four months.”
“There’s never a point to your dating.” Everyone stops and looks at Juliet. She nervously tucks her blonde hair behind her ear. “Sorry, I just mean, most people date to marry, but you don’t believe in marriage, so why do you keep dating? It’s never made sense to me.”
“Because it’s fun.” And because no one wants to be alone, especially me.
“Then there’s your answer.” Carly flashes an animated smile. “What could be more fun than kissing the hot cowboy? Money doesn’t have to be the only benefit to your marriage.”
I get it.
If I were in my friends’ shoes, I’d take one look at Hess and dish out the exact same advice. In fact, I’d be even more aggressive about making the most out of this marriage. However, the advice is harder to take when my heart and feelings are on the line.
“Listen”—Blair drills me with her eyes—“nobody here thinks this marriage will actually last. We know you too well to even suggest that. All we’re saying is that you like the guy, and normally when you like someone, you play the game, control the tempo, have a little fun.
The fact that you’re refusing to do that in this situation seems out of character for you. ”
She’s right. Typically, I play the game hard, and when I’m controlling how things go, I don’t get hurt.
I stay long enough to have fun and then leave.
I could do the same thing with Hess but not play the game so hard that he gets hurt.
Just some harmless flirting to ease some of the attraction between us.
Because Heaven knows if I have to see that man in a white tank top, carrying a bale of hay over his shoulder one more time, I’m going to snap.
I glance around the table. “So you guys don’t think it’s a bad idea to flirt with Hess or maybe even kiss him? You know, just innocent stuff.”
They shake their heads in unison.
Permission to like my husband. In a way, that’s what I’ve been wishing for the last few weeks.
And today, these girls gave it to me.
I guess that’s what friends are for.
It’s nearly two-thirty in the morning when I finally pull into the driveway, headlights pouring over the front of Hess’s house.
Dinner with the girls ran late. We stood in the parking lot, talking long after all the restaurant employees had left, and I still had my long drive home.
Normally, getting in late wouldn’t be a big deal.
Except, I realize once I’m standing on the porch, I don’t have my house keys.
In my rush to leave the office earlier that evening, I accidentally left them on my desk.
Such a bummer at this hour.
Especially since the extra key that used to be under the doormat is the one Hess gave me when I moved in.
Every door is locked. I already tried them all. I even jiggle a couple of the windows that are low enough for me to reach.
Nothing.
This place is harder to get into than the White House.
My stomach twists with irritation. I just want to be in bed.
I text Hess. No reply. I call him. It rings and rings.
His slide show comes to mind, and I suddenly remember that he’s a self-proclaimed heavy sleeper.
Great.
Just great.
I pace in front of his bedroom window, phone glowing in my hand as I hit call again. Still nothing. I wish I hadn’t told him this morning not to wait up for me.
I decided to march up to his window and knock. Hard.
“Hess!” I hiss then pound harder. Bushes scrape against my legs as I wedge myself closer, peeking in. That’s when I see it—the latch flipped the opposite way. His window is unlocked.
Oh, thank you, Heaven.
I push. The pane groans open an inch, then another, until I have just enough space.
With one foot braced on the waterspout, I hoist myself through.
Unfortunately, I put a little too much muscle into it and tumble forward.
My body crashes to the floor, legs smacking into the nightstand and knocking things down with a loud clatter.
Before I can even move, Hess is on me. His weight pins me down, wrists shoved above my head, his body tense and ready for a fight. And he’s wearing nothing but briefs.
I feel like that’s an important detail to mention here.
“It’s me!” My voice comes out rushed and panicked. “Hess, it’s me!”
His eyes, still fogged from sleep, adjust slowly in the moonlight. The pressure on my wrists loosens. “Camila?”
“Yes.” I’m breathless, half from the fall, half from the way he’s straddling me. I think he knocked the wind out of me when he flung his body on top of mine.
“What are you doing?”
“I was locked out. I called. I pounded on your window. What else was I supposed to do?”
His brow furrows. “I think I heard it. But it was part of my dream.”
I push on his chest, trying to get him off me, but instead, my touch on his warm skin ignites something, making the entire compromised position worse.
Charged silence fills the air between us.
What was adrenaline and fear turns into something else entirely.
Something heavier.
Hungrier.
Every reckless word my friends teased me with tonight echoes in my mind: Kiss the hot cowboy. My eyes drop to his mouth. With just one tilt forward or one yank of his neck down to me, we’d be kissing. And by the way his gaze fills with passion, I know he’s thinking the same thing.
His head dips closer, close enough that my breath catches. He pauses, caught in some inner battle of good and evil. Then, he gives the slightest shake, as though chastising himself for even considering it.
He pushes off me, crawling backward, raking a hand through his hair as he sits back away from me.
His voice comes out low and angry. “Go to bed.”
The words sting—not because they’re cruel, but because I feel the same war raging inside me.
That wanting.
That frustration.
That intense longing neither of us knows what to do with.