Chapter 5 #2
“Your brother would probably kill me if he found out about this,” he said once her back was to him as she reached for the papers.
Yeah, her brother, Jake, wouldn’t exactly roll out the red carpet for Liam, but she had no intention of telling anyone in her family what she’d done. “Jake’s harmless.”
“Sure.” He barked out a laugh. “He does what I do, so . . .”
The on-the-books stuff or the other top-secret work? She almost spoke her thoughts, but she was worried Liam would assume Sam had betrayed Owen’s trust and told her the truth, even though she hadn’t. Emily wasn’t an idiot, she’d pretty much figured it out.
“Do you remember more of our, uh, wedding night now that some time has passed?” he asked, his voice low and sexy, and his question derailed her thoughts.
“I, uh. Yeah, a little.”
He was behind her now. She could feel him. Smell his cologne. A touch of mint with smooth notes of vanilla as the base.
Desire unfurled inside her belly when his hand matched the curve of her hip. “Liam.”
Her pulse broke out into a full-on Mt. Everest type of climb with him so close, and she tried to hide the chill sweeping down her body as if it were his hand running smoothly over her skin.
He leaned in and brought his mouth near her ear. “You’ve been drinking, too?”
She spied the glass of wine on her nightstand. She’d left it there when she went to answer the door. “Mmhm. A lot on my mind. Work.” She paused. “You.”
He released his hold of her, and she turned to face him. “I should go then.”
She extended the papers, a slight tremble in her hand. He didn’t even look down. No, he kept his eyes on hers, his chest lifting ever so slightly as he studied her. She’d give anything to have the power to read his thoughts.
“Maybe since we got married while we were drunk, we should get divorced when we’re sober.” A sort of sad resignation moved through his words.
“It, uh, won’t be a divorce. It’ll be like it never happened.” Her stomach turned at her last statement, and she wasn’t sure why.
“‘Never happened,’ huh?” His eyes dipped to the papers.
Even beneath his beard, she witnessed the strain of his jaw as if he were attempting to pulverize stone with his back teeth.
When he peered at her again, with his lips set into a hard line and his brows drawn inward, she couldn’t tell if he was angry or confused.
She wished it’d been more than six times they’d hung out so she’d know him better, so she’d know how to handle this moment.
“I’ll come back tomorrow,” he said. “What time will you be out of work?”
“Six-ish.”
“I’ll bring food. Thai okay?”
“That’s not necessary.”
“Please. We should at least eat a meal together before you stop being my wife.”
Wife. Why did that word sound so amazing coming from his mouth?
“Okay,” she finally caved.
He continued to stare at her, words seeming to fail him.
“Well, thank you,” she added, feeling like she needed to fill the space of the silence since he hadn’t talked in a solid minute. She’d been slowly ticking off the seconds in her head waiting.
“I’ll be back tomorrow, then.” His focus wandered to her bed as if a memory from their night together had hit him. “I, uh, should go.” A touch more of his Australian accent flowed through his speech this time. Or maybe she’d imagined it, she couldn’t be sure of anything at the moment.
A dizziness grabbed hold of her as she stood before a man who, according to the state of Nevada, was her husband.
“You’ve been in the U.S. for a while, right?” She tossed the papers back on the bed and strode toward him.
“Since I was nineteen.”
“So, you’ve lived here for almost half your life?”
He folded his arms and angled his head. “Why do you ask?”
“Just wondering how you’re still so very Aussie.”
His lips quirked into a slight smile. “Do you not want me to be?”
“No, I love your accent,” she admitted, probably too quickly.
“I happen to love yours, too.”
She poked her chest with her index finger and arched a brow. “Mine?”
“Your Southern accent is very . . .”
He looked at the ceiling instead of finishing his thoughts. Maybe that was for the better.
He gritted out, “You’re making this hard for me.”
“I don’t understand.”
His eyes seized hold of hers again. “You’re making it hard for me to walk away right now, Emily.”
Ohhh.
He scratched his trimmed blond beard. What was it about a man with facial hair, and why did she find herself wondering if his beard would tickle her inner thighs if he kissed her there?
“Are you always this candid, or is it the alcohol?”
“Probably the whiskey.”
She set her hand against his chest and maintained eye contact. “Maybe you could try it when you’re not drinking?”
He wrapped a hand around her slender wrist, then bowed his head closer to hers.
She wasn’t sure if he was going to kiss her. And was it wrong she wanted him to?
He was still her husband until they signed the papers. And right now, this ruggedly sexy man seemed to be looking at her like he wanted her.
His forehead touched hers, and he cursed under his breath.
Yeah, the struggle was real.
“I really should go.” His words were heavy. Gritty. Like he had to force them out.
“Yeah,” she whispered but didn’t pull away. “You have a place to stay, right?”
She was dangerously close to offering her sofa, which she knew would be a stupid idea given this very moment.
No way would she be able to sleep under the same roof with him, not after they’d had sex last weekend, and not with her wishing he’d rip off her clothes.
Damn her brain for not remembering everything about that night in Vegas, especially the between-the-sheets parts. Or on top of the sheets. She wasn’t sure if they’d made it to a bed until the moment they actually decided to sleep.
He stepped back, and she lowered her hand to her side.
“There’s a hotel within walking distance. I got a room there when I first arrived this afternoon.”
“Oh. Good. Well, then I’ll see you tomorrow night.”
His hand moved up to cup her cheek, and his thumb swept in circular motions as he stared at her lips. “Goodnight, Emily.”
Her cheek grew cold at the loss of his warm palm.
She followed him to the door, and once he was outside of her apartment, he glimpsed one last look at her before disappearing into the stairwell. Alcohol or not, the man still took the stairs instead of the elevator.
After he was out of sight, she closed the door and rested her forehead against it.
At the sound of a text alert coming from her phone a beat later, she locked up, then went to the living room to retrieve it.
Liam: This is your husband. ;) I thought you should have my number.
Emily: How’d you get mine?
Clearly, he hadn’t known Owen had given her his digits.
Liam: This is me we’re talking about. ;)
God, he even winked in his texts. Why did he have to be so frustratingly sexy and charming?
Emily: Good point.
She clutched the phone, considering what to say next.
So they got drunk and married and became a TV cliché—why not own it, at least?
Emily: I’d expect nothing less from my husband.
Liam: And now I kind of want to come back up there and kiss you like I wanted to before.
She almost dropped the phone. Holy shit.
Emily: You never told me—what do you remember from Vegas?
Liam: Probably more than you. Because I remember how you kiss. How you taste.
A blazing trail of heat traveled from her stomach down to between her legs.
Liam: I should probably turn off my phone before I get myself into more trouble.
Liam: Goodnight, Emily.
She was going to need her emergency stash of Oreos tonight.
And more wine.
Hell, a lot more wine.