Chapter 7
7
Cate
I’m met with dull gray everything—from the chairs to the walls to the linoleum flooring. “Cate,” Shane calls, my name bouncing off the walls of the county clerk’s office like a ball.
Even with what feels like a football field away, Shane Faris is easy to find. Nothing about him blends into the boring government waiting room. It’s his hair, that mop of sex appeal that he wears like a badge of honor and the way he stares at me, like I’m the celebrity, that has me ready to maul him with my mouth.
My dreams about him were bad enough, in the sense that they were so good, but now I can’t stop thinking about what he did to me last night in bed. I’ve never had a dream feel more real in my life. I’m pretty sure self-induced orgasms don’t count in the way Maggie meant yesterday. But I won’t deny that I’m feeling fantastic today.
I should probably be ashamed of what we did, even if only in my imagination, but I’m struggling to feel bad. I can’t explain what’s come over me regarding this man. I’m usually so temperate when it comes to guys, happy to take my time and see if we click.
I click with Shane.
At the very least, my body definitely understands the connection. So dirty . . . a giggle erupts.
I’m here for a reason, and it doesn’t include the way he spread my legs— dammit, Cate. Get it together. Shane has shown up out of the kindness of his heart, taking time out of his busy schedule for me. So I need to collect myself and clear last night out of my brain. For now. Really, it should be forever. I have no business fantasizing about a rock star who will be out of my life as soon as he can be.
The long walk across the room draws bored eyes my way, my flats clacking loud enough along the linoleum to distract people from whatever they’re doing. I’m glad my top is breezy when I walk, keeping the airflow around my torso. I try to avoid being the center of attention, but my cheeks are already heating under the gaze of so many people waiting their turn.
I catch the way he looks me over when I get closer, but I’m sure he caught me doing the same to him. Jeans, again, and sneakers, another tee that’s seen a lot of years but fits him so well, and hands shoved in his pockets. I hate that my mind starts to wander right back to the wee hours when he kissed my inner thighs, then went higher. I can only imagine the real thing is even better.
“Hi,” he says, standing.
“Hi.”
We both lean in. Me thinking we’ll shake hands. Him opening his arms to embrace me. A jab to his stomach has him groaning. “Oh gosh, I’m sorry.” I scramble to cover the area I stabbed, but I’m met with muscles that I wouldn’t mind seeing closer. “You hide rocks under there?”
Oh my God, please stop, I beg of myself .
“Yeah, that was not appropriate,” I say, the words vomiting from my mouth. “I thought we were going in for a handshake.” Covering my forehead with my hand, I’m tempted to close my eyes to hide from him, but since he’s already seen me, I don’t think that will work in my favor.
I reach over to help with the pain, but he’s already got it covered, literally, with his hand. Taking a breath, he grins, but it’s not half as big as I hoped it would be when he saw me. I thought we had made great headway yesterday, and now I’ve gone and injured the man. “It’s okay,” he says, sitting down. “But I won’t make that mistake again.”
“No, don’t say that. Please. I’m so sorry. Please don’t not hug me.”
Chuckling, he asks, “Do you need a hug, Cate?”
It’s been a long time since I’ve been held in someone’s arms, so I don’t lie. “I kind of do.”
He stands, his hands taking hold of my arms. To keep me from stabbing him in the stomach again or to prepare me for what’s about to happen? I don’t know, but I stand still, so still that I don’t even breathe as he wraps his arms around me.
I didn’t expect him to do the dirty deed, but I’m never willingly leaving the warm embrace of his body. Not ever. I close my eyes, and the clean scent of his cologne and the way I get hints of him mixed in is intoxicating. Just as I melt against him, he releases me. I stumble but catch myself before he notices. Sitting back down, he pats the seat next to him. “I saved you a seat.”
I’m not eighteen, but he makes me feel just like I did at the bonfire after graduation—giddy and alive. He’s a dangerous combination that won’t last, so I can’t get sucked into the euphoria that is Shane Faris.
Sitting next to him, I set my purse on my lap, gripping it between my hands and hoping he can’t see me inwardly freaking out, or he’ll be running away like he did yesterday. This time, I’m sure he’d keep going. “Thanks,” I reply, playing it off with a sway of my wrist. When I look around, not one seat is available in the waiting area, making his gesture even sweeter.
Shane’s knee bumps into mine. “You know you don’t need to be nervous around me.”
“Pfft.” I wave him off. “I’m not. I’m always like this.” What am I saying?
“Anxious?”
He has a talent for throwing me off-kilter with his comments. There was all that “ fucking” yesterday, and now he’s diagnosing me in the lobby of the Los Angeles County clerk’s office. “Um, that was not what I was going to say. The word particular fits better, or even responsible.”
His knee taps mine twice, willing me to watch the connection and hope it repeats. “Why not toss dependable in the mix?”
I start an eye roll but catch myself before giving him the satisfaction of reacting. “You say that like it’s a bad thing. Dependable is a great adjective.”
“I say that because I can’t imagine life being so orderly.” He rests his arms forward on his legs, cupping his hands in front of him. “I live in twenty-four seven chaos.”
“I can’t imagine that . Sounds exhausting.”
He chuckles and scrubs his hands over his face, ending with a slide of his fingers through his hair. When he sits back, he spreads his legs like he intends to be here for a while. “It is.”
“Maybe you could use some order in your life?”
He shifts again. I’m not surprised he can’t get comfortable. He’s a big guy, and these chairs were made for earthly beings, not otherworldly rock gods of his stature. Resting his head back on the wall, he slips a slow grin onto his face. It’s not big and showy, but it feels personal. “You’re probably right.”
Neither of us rushes to look away, but I finally blink, breaking the connection, which allows me to breathe again. It was almost easy to forget why we’re here in the first place, but when the next number is called, I’m reminded. “Did you get a number?”
Holding up a slip of paper, he replies, “Eighty-three.”
I glance up at the lighted board on the wall, then sag into my chair again since it will be a while. “Thirteen?” Glancing back at him, I add, “We’re going to be here all day.”
“Fourteen?” someone calls out from a distance.
He says, “It won’t be so bad. We have each other to keep us company.”
I’m kept guessing when it comes to him. He’s arrogant and impulsive with his words, pushes my buttons—I’m thinking on purpose—but also can be a total gentleman, a good listener, puts me first, especially when he goes and says the sweetest things like that. My heart stops guarding the gate around him. “We do.”
Two hours later . . .
“Fifty-two?”
“Come onnn .” I close my eyes and drop my head into my hands. “I can’t take this.”
Touching my arm with a little rub of the exposed skin of my elbow, he stands. “I’ll be right back.”
Fortunately, I had rearranged my days, moving my visit to Beacon’s Point Retirement Center to Friday, but I still had hoped to catch up on some paperwork at the office today. It’s not looking likely by how slow the line is moving.
I’d been staring at my shoes, bored out of my mind instead of watching where Shane had disappeared when he reappears. I look up, sitting straighter. “Where’d you go?”
“Working my magic.” His composed tone reassures me even with the nonspecific answer. Stressing sure wasn’t helping, so this is a nice change. Though it’s interesting to find comfort in a man I barely know simply because we joined forces on the same mission. Life is fascinating like that.
One day, I’m working with my patients.
The next day, I’m sitting in a lobby with a world-famous musician, waiting to get a divorce. A lot of steps were skipped between the two, but here we are, working together.
His sunglasses hide his eyes, so when he sits, I lean in closer to ask, “Hiding so you don’t get recognized?”
“Something like that.” He chuckles. “Sometimes I feel . . . normal again, having forgotten myself for a bit.”
“Forgotten you’re famous?”
Shane seems to ponder the question, mulling it over as he scrapes his teeth across the top of his bottom lip. “Yes,” he whispers as if there’s shame built in that he’s come to accept. “Maybe not so much forgotten than remembering what it’s like to be in public and not have anyone give a shit about me.” He pulls the glasses off and eyes me out of the corner of his eye. “I’d pay to feel normal for an entire day.”
I’m not sure what to say to that; the sentiment is not something I comprehend, but I reach over and cover the top of his hand with mine. I don’t hold it. I’m just here for him.
He doesn’t move his hand or pull away like I’ve crossed a line. We sit quietly together in the silence of the statement until another few numbers are called. It’s strange how content I feel. This doesn’t feel awkward but natural with him.
I slide my hand back to my denim-clad legs with a quick swipe of my palms down my thighs. Not to keep us suspended in whatever that was, I ask, “Are you really not going to tell me where you were?”
The clerk calls out, “Fifty-three?”
Standing, he lifts my arm by the elbow and takes me with him. “That’s us.”
“No, we’re?—”
“Fifty-three,” he says, flipping a piece of paper up with that number on it and grinning like he got away with something he shouldn’t have.
“You got someone to trade with you?”
“I don’t want to make you an accomplice, so let’s just leave it at I worked my magic.”
Laughing softly, I say, “This is one of those perks of being famous I’ve always heard about, and I’m not complaining.”
His hand slips around my lower back, and he whispers from behind my ear, “It’s showtime.”
A laugh bellows from my gut, the release feeling too good to use my inside voice. We slide up to the window like Bonnie and Clyde, ready to sweet-talk a cashier into handing over the money. Despite what I prefer, I put some space between us, a little pocket of air so our body language isn’t misinterpreted. He rests on his arm, and says, “Hello, Roberta.”
If she doesn’t die from that sensual greeting, I will, and it wasn’t even my name.
She spins to face him, smiling with a gleam in her eyes that reflects the unflattering fluorescent light above our heads. I recognize that look, but my eyes have stars, while hers carry fluorescent light beams.
Since I’m the one with everything on the line, I feel responsible for telling the story repeatedly, as if she didn’t hear it a few days ago. By the blank stare she’s giving me, I don’t think she remembers a word of it or me.
I end it by showing off Shane like Vanna White, as if his presence, his denial to marrying me, will be enough proof to annul this marriage or, better yet, pretend it never happened.
He gets her back in the game when he nods on cue and leans in closer to eye level with her. When his chin dips down but his eyes stay locked on hers, she practically falls right off her stool. “What can we do here, Roberta?” His question is drawn out, his voice deeply personal as if they’re the only two in the place. “How can we clear this up quickly?”
Glancing at me, he continues with his smooth voice that has gone into sultry territory. To her, he says, “Catalina is a lovely woman, and maybe under different circumstances we would have traveled down this road together. But under real life circumstances, we barely know each other.”
“I married my husband after knowing him a month,” Roberta counters, showing her ring to us. “He got this for our twentieth anniversary. We’ve celebrated fifteen since then.” She straightens her shoulders, and that’s when I realize it’s already going downhill from here. “Maybe this is meant to be,” she adds, “and an opportunity to spend a few days together to get to know each other better. In some countries, the couple doesn’t even meet until?—”
“You chose your husband, Roberta. I’d like to choose mine instead of leaving it to California.” I lean in, my arm bumping against Shane’s. “I’ve been married for twelve years and just found out four days ago.”
“She’s a gorgeous woman,” Shane adds, suddenly drawing both of our attention. The unexpected compliment is both flattering and confusing. I have no idea where he’s going with this, but I can’t wait to find out.
A few seconds tick by as we stare at him, unsure what he’ll say next or if he’s going to say anything at all. When time drags on, I tuck my hair behind my ear, moving my eyes to his neck so I don’t drown in the oceans of his eyes. “Um, thank you.” With my hand signaling toward him, I tell her, “He’s a very attractive man?—”
“He really is,” she adds, smiling at him again. “He deserves better.”
“Hey, wait a minute.” Raising my finger, I’m lost on how this turned on me. “I’m not so bad.”
She’s back to business but shoots me a stare. “He deserves someone who loves him.”
“She does, too,” Shane interjects. “A guy could only be so fortunate to call her his bride. She’s funny, and well, she deserves to be called wife by someone she loves instead of due to a clerical error.”
“I understand your frustration, Mr. Faris, but it’s not been an error on our part.” She looks between us, and her eyes land hard on me this time. Again . “There’s an attraction to build on. I suggest you explore it because I’m not sure what kind of game you’re playing, but your energy should be spent trying to make your marriage work.”
Draping myself on the counter, I plead, “You have to help us.” I can already see the house slipping away from me. The yo-yo of the highs and lows are trauma-inducing. “Please, Roberta.”
“Pick yourself up, Mrs. Faris.”
My back stiffens, giving me flashbacks from my childhood. “It’s Farin.”
“Now that’s a coincidence. There’s only one letter separating you from him. How convenient.”
The warmth of Shane’s hand finds my lower back again and rubs gently. “That’s how we met in homeroom junior year. Catalina had just moved to?—”
“That’s all well and good,” she interrupts, “and I’m sure it has a romantic plot twist since you got married, but I need to make myself very clear, Mr. Faris and Mrs. Farin. This isn’t an error made in our office. All the correct information is filled out.” She angles the screen toward us and points at a line. “As you can see, it’s not a slip of the fingers by one of our employees. Around twenty different lines would have been filled out to make this official with signatures attached.”
“Shit,” he mutters, leaning in to read the screen. “Can we see the signatures?”
Clicking around the keyboard, she says, “Give me a second to get to that page. These computers, I swear, are from two thousand and four.”
Too eager to look away, I’m staring at the screen like my life depends on it. I hear him whisper, “My signature is all over the internet. Autographs are sold on eBay.”
Not to shoot down his theory before it has a chance to be proven, but my head can’t wrap around the idea that someone would purposely do this to us. Why me, of all people, if they were going for him?
Since the scroll is so slow on Roberta’s side of the window, I glance up at him. “Why would a fan legally bind you to me?”
The devil is in his eyes. “Legally bound to me. Why does that sound so incredibly sexy?” His tone is more fitting for cocktails at a hideaway bar where we’d have privacy before retiring to a hotel room. But that’s not where we are, leaving me incapable of a response because my throat goes dry.
“Here you go,” Roberta announces, eyeing the screen like I wasn’t just about to mount this man beside me.
Returning my eyes to the monitor, I scan quickly to find the lines where we supposedly once signed. My body stills as I try to make sense of this. But I eventually turn to him for guidance, to say something, to help me understand how this happened. When Shane’s eyes turn to mine, and he shrugs, I know we’re in trouble. “It looks like it could be mine.”
I look back once more, my future hanging in the balance of my response. “That’s not my signature,” I whisper, mentally kissing my house goodbye as I eye Cat Farin on the screen. “But it was when I was eighteen.”