Emily
Thayer’s talking to someone in the bedroom. But before I left the room, I definitely heard him throw the lock on the door. The vibration of the metal sounded like a jail cell slamming shut—locking me in.
From his closet, I take another one of his white shirts to sleep in and throw it on without thinking about it. But how can I not think about it—him—when his scent permeates every inch of this suite? Everything screams Thayer, from the antique claw-foot tub to the oversized glass-and-marble shower.
I close my eyes and lean back against the counter. How’d I get into this mess? I start at the beginning.
I said I’d marry him.
Marriage.
I always vowed I’d only do it once. And now? Now I’ll break that vow. I’m not staying married to Thayer.
We could fake it?
Even before I finish the thought, I know it’s not true. Thayer’s dad, he would figure it out. Hell, even with a real piece of paper, he’s bound to figure out that I’m not really pregnant. That we’ve faked the whole thing.
Then there’s my dad . . . How is this not going to kill him?
I’m going to need help with how to tell my dad, but who . . . Rachel? Lilith? Whitney? Haley? No, not Haley. Easton’s going to go through the roof. I can only hope they’re in the South Pacific on their island.
I shake my head and pivot around to the mirror.
In his shirt, I have that well-fucked look—or rather, an I-want-to-be-well-fucked look. Which I don’t. I absolutely don’t. I button the top button of the shirt. I’ve got no other options. Naked or my uncomfortable dress aren’t options. Even inmates get a uniform.
I step back into the bedroom. Thayer’s alone and leaning awkwardly by the door. “Who were you talking to?”
“No one.” He unbuttons his shirt, unrolls the sleeves, and carefully places it on the leather chair next to the bed.
“What are you doing?” My arms fold over my chest, a weak shield between me and his defined body.
He cocks his right eyebrow. “Getting undressed.”
“Well, do it in there.” I stab a fingertip in the general direction of the bathroom.
“I’m not going to slink around in a robe for the next nine months, Emily.” His voice drops on my name.
My eyes are glued to his thick fingers as he unbuckles his belt and drops his pants. Holding them from the bottom of the pant leg, he lines up the seams with care and hangs them over the edge of the chair.
Watching him puts me in a trance. In high school, Thayer was a runner. But his legs now bulge with muscle, his stomach a taut six-pack with that V Lil always goes on about.
“Eight. I wouldn’t know I was pregnant if it’s nine months. We’ll have to create a story that we met back up after Whitney’s wedding.” My imagination wanders a bit. I'm pretty sure I edited a book like this back when I was still editing.
“That works.”
“I need clothes.”
His eyes drop to where the V of his white shirt sits above my breasts. Even buttoned, I’m showing a lot of skin. “I don’t know if that’s true.”
“I’m not playing that game. You don’t own me.”
“Okay.”
“And I want my phone back.”
“Okay.” There’s a smooth smile on his lips. He’s giving me what I want, so I should be thrilled, but I’m too frustrated by his upturned lips.
I’m flinching at his being so agreeable. I was just getting used to accepting the bad-guy persona.
“But you can’t ever tell anyone the truth.” He takes a stack of folders from a leather briefcase next to the chair.
I cock my head to the side and put my hand out like he’s going to pull my phone out of his boxers.
My chest vibrates when he reaches beside me—my body’s reaction to him being close is getting old.
He steps away and takes my phone from his suitcoat pocket.
Thayer hovers the phone above my palm. “No one can know that we have an arrangement. Not Lilith, not Whitney, and especially not your brother and his—”
“—family.” I clasp my fingers around my cracked phone case. If he comes at me about Haley, whom I consider more than a sister-in-law, even though she’s not married to Easton . . .
“You can’t tell his family,” Thayer growls out.
“Of course. I’m not stupid, Thayer. But there are other people besides Anders, Ryder, and Oliver who will be wondering where I am.
My father, for one, and my assistants at the foundation as well.
They're going to think it really odd. Though maybe that’s good.
When I tell them later that I’m pregnant, they’ll fill in the blanks that I was off trying to figure out what to do. ”
He nods and tosses the files in the middle of the bed. “Yes, that will work.”
“I need clothes.” I put my hand on my hip. “No one’s going to believe that I’m hanging out here just wearing your clothes.”
“I don’t know about that, Emily. The word is out; you’re frugal.”
“There’s nothing wrong with being frugal.
” I narrow my eyes at him. I might not be old money, but neither is he.
There was a divide in high school. College, not so much.
I didn't hang out with the same sort of crowd as the rich kids of Pine Green.
But in high school, there was definitely old money and new money.
New money had to have the flashy designer brands.
Old money had quality, quiet luxury. I went the other way from the rest of the new money crowd: Pine Green Academy T-shirts and Saturday afternoons at the bins. “I like frugal. I like my clothes.”
“It’s downstairs.”
“What’s downstairs? My suitcase?”
He nods.
“Why didn’t you tell me that before?”
He shrugs.
I head for the door, but he grabs my wrist.
“You can’t go out there looking like that.”
“Why not? It looks like we just had sex and I’m looking for my things to freshen up. I think that’s the story you want to sell, no?”
His eyes narrow. “I’ll go get it.” He takes his robe from a hook on the wall.
“Who were you talking to before?”
“Myself.”
I purse my lips because I hate liars. Though, is there anyone who likes a liar? “Okay. Well, I’m going to get my bag.”
“No, I’ll get it for you.” He pulls a key from the nightstand and unlocks the door. It clunks when he locks it from the other side. He’s out of the room before I can tell him not to bother. Everything in it is dirty anyway, and I’ve already taken a new toothbrush from his bathroom cupboard.
“Whatever,” I say to the closed door. Dirty clothes are better than no clothes.
I walk around the room, turning off the five thousand lamps I turned on earlier.
With a swift yank, I pull the covers down.
His folders bounce—I eye them and decide against rifling through them.
There are things I don’t want to know. It takes a second to climb up onto the massive bed, and I sit gingerly on the side.
I’m not sleeping under the covers with him. No way.
The blanket in the armoire.
I leap off the bed and open the armoire. But the blankets are at the top of the preposterously tall shelf. I drag a chair from the other side of the room and climb up on it.
“What are you doing, Emily?”
I jump but grab the armoire door and manage to keep from tumbling off the chair. Oliver’s hands land around my waist.
“How did you get in here?” There’s a tremble in my voice. I’m quivering under his touch. He tugs me to his chest, and I slide down his firm body until my toes hit the thick Oriental carpet.
“I asked you a question first.”
“Getting a blanket so Thayer isn’t sleeping under the sheets with me.” I glance back at the still locked door. “How did you get in here?”
Oliver flashes me a smile. “I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”
My lips purse, and my hands go to my hips. “He was talking to you when I was in the bathroom. Were you hiding under the bed?” I drop to my knees and peer under the bed. The thick pile rug stops halfway. There’s no Oliver-size dust print, but then there’s also no dust.
He taps me on my shoulder, and I pop up. “No, Emily, I wasn’t under the bed. Let me—” He’s cut off by the heavy lock turning.
“Whitehall, get the fuck out of my bedchamber.” Thayer holds the door open.
“Bedchamber,” Oliver says with a warm chuckle. “Give the word, Emily, and I’m here in a flash.” He saunters through the open door, and Thayer slams it on him.
“That was rude.” My hands land on my hips.
“Rude is coming into someone’s bedroom uninvited.” Thayer hangs his robe up.
“I seem to remember that that was your favorite thing to do.”
“I was invited, Em.” He takes a step toward me.
And I instinctively step away. There’s a vibration through my chest and down my spine.
Back in high school. I should have known better, but I was young and starved for any scrap of attention I could get.
I wasn’t breaking national swimming records.
I wasn’t a straight-A student. I was average all round.
Then Thayer picked me out and chased me down until I caved and said I would go out with him.
He picked me, a freshman, when all the girls in the school were drooling over him.
Me. Just to shatter me. Leave me in pieces.
Get over yourself. That was a million years and a thousand mistakes ago.
“I said I’d do this, Thayer, but I’m not playing a game. I’m not yours. I’m not inviting you to do anything with me. Like you said, this is an arrangement. An arrangement to take down your father. He almost killed my brother and my father.”
“And you.” Thayer’s growling again.
“Yes, and me.” When I think of the time on the raft, it’s only ever my dad I think about and how he’s never been the same.
How there’s no way he can be the same again.
Somehow, I always gloss over the fact, when I think about him on the raft, floating sunburnt on the ocean, that I was there too.
Staring at my ex-fiancé, who was grieving his mistress, my father’s fiancée. Yes. I can pick some real winners.
“Your suitcase.” He rolls it to me, but it’s not a Rimowa, $10k for a carry-on, or even a Tumi. I bought my bag at Tarmart, so the wheels sink into the carpet and stop a few inches from him.
I swallow the thank you on my lips and cross the expanse between us.
Do I hold my breath? Yes. Because of him in boxers and his scent of cloves and citrus.
Then the flashbacks of everything his family has done to mine come racing back, and I snatch my bag up.
I take it to the leather chair on the other side of the room.
The firm rectangle in the front pocket tells me my computer’s in place.
But my ugly grandma jammies are what I’m looking for.
Even dirty, they’re better than wearing his shirt.
The nylon zipper of my bag whines, and it drops open.
I whip around. “You had someone go through my bag?” I had packed up before I left for Oliver’s hotel room, leaving just the things I would need out the next morning before my flight.
My paper bag of dirty clothes is gone. In place are neatly folded and laundered clothes.
Running my fingers over them, I find my yellow blouse, the one I spilled chicken vindaloo on the first night in London.
I hold it up. Why? Am I going to launch into a tirade about how he can’t have someone wash my clothes and ruin them?
Is this the hill I’m going to die on? No, well, definitely not, because the spot is gone. “You had someone wash my clothes?”
“No.”
“Thayer, my clothes are clean.”
“I washed your clothes, Em.”
“Stop calling me Em.”
“Emily,” he says, his voice smoother than the silk blouse I’m holding.
“Stop.” My brow furrows, and I hold my hand up. “Thank you,” I bite out.
He laughs. “You’re welcome. Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“I trashed that nightgown. There was no saving it.”
“What?” I search for my granny nightgown. “It was fine.”
“There is nowhere in the world that fabric was fine.”
“Fine.” I yank my second favorite T-shirt out of the pile, grab my workout shorts, and stomp to the bathroom to change.
I leave Thayer’s shirt on the floor and make my way back to the bedroom.
I glare at him. He’s shirtless, leaning up against the headboard, a pair of reading glasses perching on his nose, a stack of papers on his lap, and a fountain pen in his hand.
I want to make fun of him, but he looks so damn sexy my mouth has gone dry.
He’s pulled the covers up on both sides of the bed.
Focus, Emily.
“Where are your shams?” There weren’t any other pillows here yesterday.
“My shams?”
“Decorative pillows. So I can make a pillow wall.”
There’s a smirk on his lips for a flash of a second. “I don’t have decorative pillows.”
“You should.” I take one of the two pillows from behind me and put it on top of the covers next to him. I lie on top of the soft duvet and pull the blanket from the armoire up around my shoulders. It’s scratchy, but I don’t care.
“That blanket is wool,” Thayer says without looking up from his work.
“Don’t care.” And it ticks me off that he’s remembered.
“You will in the morning when your legs have broken out in hives. Unless you’ve outgrown your allergy to wool?” Again, he doesn’t look up.
“No, I haven’t.” I groan and toss the blanket onto him.