Chapter 14 Erin
Erin
My wedding band burns a hole in my pocket as I stare at the case by the door.
I’ve told Mom and Paige I’ve secured a gig waitressing at a resort for the week. As far as they know, a car will collect me and take me to the station, but I have no idea what kind of car is going to show up.
August told me he’d collect me at nine—that’s all I know.
“Are you sure this is okay?” I ask Mom for the millionth time. I make a mental note to request those words be etched onto my gravestone when I depart this Earth.
“Yes,” she sighs.
I see through it, though. She loves having Paige all to herself. She also loves any opportunity to make me feel bad about it.
Her smile sweetens. “I’m just pleased someone finally recognizes your talent.”
I spin to face her. “As—a waitress?”
“Well, yes, honey. It’s a step up from barmaid, isn’t it?”
I bite back a retort. If only she knew I’d stepped all the way up to high class escort. She’d probably have a stroke.
One thing to be grateful for is the fact that knowing I’m about to leave for a week has prompted my daughter to say a few words more than usual to me. I even get hugs.
“Promise to bring back snacks?” she asks after blowing the bangs from her face.
“Yes.” I wrap my arms around her. “All the snacks.”
“Vegan ones?”
Mom rolls her eyes in my periphery.
“Nothing but vegan.”
I kiss the top of Paige’s head, which almost comes up to the top of mine, and a sharp stab of pain drives into my chest.
As much as I do deserve a ‘break’, I hate leaving her. The fact I even need a break is not Paige’s fault, yet she’s going to be without a mom for the next week.
I have to remind myself, I’m doing this for us. For her.
I stroke a finger down her cheek. “If you need anything, call me, okay?”
“I will, Mom.”
A horn sounds on the street, making Paige jump. I give her one last squeeze then pick up my case as Mom opens the door.
“Wow. Cabs sure have changed since I last hailed one,” she says, blowing out a breath.
I bend my head to see what she’s talking about and almost die when I see a black, shiny, luxury SUV rolling up to the front of the house.
Paige materializes at my side. “Hey, that’s cool, Mom.”
Flustered, I tuck my blonde hair behind my ear and carry the case out the door.
Turning to face Mom and Paige, I wave them back inside. “Go on in, don’t catch a cold.”
“It’s May,” Paige pouts.
“Still,” I roll my eyes. “You have nothing on your feet. Go get warm.”
When neither of them moves, I head toward the car, not expecting the trunk to open automatically and for August King to step out the driver’s side.
“My,” I hear my mother say from the doorway, “cab drivers have sure changed too.”
Doing my best to ignore her, and the manic, unhinged butterflies having a rave in my stomach, I hand my case to August. Then, lowering my lashes, I try to ignore the electricity that zings down my arm when our fingers brush.
“This is understated. Not.”
He pauses, with both our hands holding the case, and waits until I flick my gaze to his. “I don’t do understated.”
He glances briefly up at my family, then nods toward the car. “Let’s go.”
I’m part irked, part turned on by the curt command.
Giving my ogling mother and daughter a brief wave, I slide into the passenger seat.
The smell of warm leather and muskiness envelopes me and I sink into the softest seat. Gerard had money, so we always had nice cars, but this one is extra nice. I could live in it.
The drive upstate is quiet.
There’s nothing hostile about it, nor particularly friendly. I guess when August said this was going to be a job, he wasn’t kidding. Besides, it’s not like we get along or have anything in common. He needs a wife for a week, I need the money. It’s just a simple transaction.
Unfortunately though, I’ve seen what lies beneath that shirt, and regardless of how annoyed I’ve felt at him, I haven’t been able to get the marbled chest, contoured muscles and inked skin out of my head. That makes things considerably less simple.
I force my gaze out the window to watch as the scenery changes from streets and buildings to long stretches of greenery.
“So, what’s my back story?”
I feel him relax beside me. “Okay. You grew up in New York.”
“That’s easy enough. I did.”
“We dated in our twenties, then you left me for some idiot jock who eventually knocked you up and made you move to California.”
My brow dips—that’s perhaps closer to my truth than he realizes.
“But I couldn’t live without you, so many years later, I heard you’d split from your husband so I flew across the country and turned up at the bar you worked at, asking for a second chance.”
I watch him talk, a smile pulling on his lips as he explains our fake past. Finding him less annoying only makes me more annoyed.
“You told me to go to hell. I didn’t. I kept turning up at the bar instead, until you eventually gave in. That was six years ago. We married after just two months of being back together, and the rest is history.”
My chest flutters without permission. “Um… okay.”
He darts his gaze to me, brief and business-like. “Think you can remember it?”
Trying to get a handle on my delinquent breaths, I gulp. “Yeah. Yes. I think I can manage that.”
I turn my gaze back to the road, but occasionally glance sideways to study him.
Thick, dark hair with flecks of salt and pepper running through, an air of controlled calm that comes with maturity, a faint scar on his inked knuckle.
He looks like a walking red flag and a GQ model, all at the same time.
Keeping to the story doesn’t faze me one bit. Keeping my eyes from seeking him out every two minutes will be the real challenge. He must have this effect on every female, which begs the question, why was I his only option?
I force my thoughts back to the reason I’m sitting here.
“So, what kind of deal are you hoping to close at this retreat?”
He turns to me, his eyes narrowed. “What?”
“You told me you have to close a deal. What kind of deal?”
His face softens slightly. “Right. I did. It’s not very exciting. The aim is to structure a syndicate for investment in the Middle East.”
“It’s more exciting than anything I’ve got going on. What kind of investment?”
He glances at me then back to the road. “Distribution initially. Then possible M&A activity, which is what I specialize in.”
“Okay,” I frown. “Maybe not so exciting.”
He bites back a smile, which drops pretty quickly. “Speaking of the deal… We’re not to talk about it outside of the formal briefings and negotiations—that’s one of the rules.”
“Right. So, not during social time? Not when I’m having to make meaningless small talk with other wives?”
“That’s correct.”
“So, it’s going to be like an enormous elephant in the room? That will be lovely.”
He takes his eyes off the road to glare at me. “Two hundred thousand dollars, Erin.”
“Fine! Will you please focus on driving?”
He pauses for a few seconds, his burning eyes sending flares of heat down my neck, then finally turns back to the road.
“Who else is going to be there?”
If I have some idea, I can be at least a little mentally prepared.
“I don’t know yet. It’s a closed invitation. I guess we’ll find out when we go to this evening’s dinner.”
“Is there an itinerary for the week?”
His fingers flex then curl back around the steering wheel, drawing my attention to the ink across both sets of his rough knuckles.
“You’ll be expected to attend dinner with me every evening but we should also be seen together occasionally throughout the day if we’re to be believable as a couple.
The rest of the time, I’ll be in and out of meetings so you’re free to do as you choose.
There might be some wives’ gatherings. I suggest you attend those if you can. ”
“Why is it so important you take a wife? What if you’re a shit hot banker, but you’re single? You just don’t qualify?”
He grinds his jaw. Surely that’s a question he’s asked himself too.
When he speaks, he seems to choose his words carefully. “Having a family in this business suggests you are solid, trustworthy.” He swallows slowly and it echoes inside the car. “You have something to lose.”
I nod. “That makes sense, I guess.”
His knuckles draw my gaze again.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I always expected bankers to be real clean-cut, not inked to the armpits.”
A corner of his mouth curls, making the light catch his silver stubble.
“I’m not inked to the armpits. I have one forearm and one full sleeve,” he says, matter of fact, like that didn’t send a bolt of fire unexpectedly between my legs.
I force my gaze back to the windshield, and for the rest of the journey—and wholly uncharacteristically—I can’t think of a single thing to say.
Winter Pines is basically a billionaire’s hunting cabin. Stone pillars line a dramatic entrance, massive windows draw light into the aged interior. And there’s a fountain out front that probably cost more than my college education.
Valets in pressed suits take our bags, while elegantly quaffed women in designer boots and cashmere coats drift past us.
My spine straightens automatically.
I belong here, I repeat in my head, because I feel like a fraud.
August slips an arm around my waist, making me jump half out of my skin. “Relax.”
I paste a smile to my face as we walk into the building. “If Gerard could see me now,” I mutter, “he’d choke on his beer.”
August leans into me. “Who’s Gerard?” he murmurs.
“My soon-to-be-ex-husband.”
“Right.” His arm tightens around me and his tone turns blunt. “Make that the last time you mention him.”
My breath startles, then I recall our cover. I’m a wife, not a recent divorcée. And fuck, he’s paying me a lot of money to remember that.
“And you do belong here,” he says, his tongue sharp.
Shit, had I actually said those words out loud?
I scoff to cover up my embarrassment. “You’re contractually obligated to say that.”
“No,” he says, guiding me inside. “I’m not.”
My stomach does a full flip and I bow my head so no one can see the blush crawling up my collarbone.
The inside of the lodge is sparkling with glimmers of wealth. Couples are checked in at a marble desk, each pair flashing enormous diamonds and designer smiles.
The concierge beams as we step up to the desk. “Mr. and Mrs. King?”
I freeze.
August slides his hand from my waist to the upper curve of my ass which distracts me instantly.
“That’s right,” he says smoothly, before tapping the spot twice and withdrawing his arm. “Married six years ago this week, actually.”
“Happy anniversary,” the concierge smiles. “On behalf of Winter Pines, I’d like to deliver a little something to your suite as a congratulatory treat.”
“That’s generous but not necessary.” August sweeps his gaze over mine. I’m unprepared and defenseless, falling breathlessly into flecks of olive and brown. “My wife is all the treat I need.”
Fuck, he’s good.
I manage a breathy laugh. “He’s incorrigible,” I say, faux-hitting his chest. Then I’m instantly reminded of the rock hard marbleness of it and forget to breathe instead.
The concierge offers an entirely fake smile. “You’ll be staying in one of our very best suites—the Wintercrest—overlooking the gardens. Dinner is in the main dining room at seven, and the dress code is formal.”
“Perfect,” August says.
I nod timidly in agreement. It’s going to take me a while to find my feet in this arrangement. My natural setting is sarcasm to the max, but here I have to be polite and becoming. The perfect banker’s wife.
I follow August to our suite, then freeze in the doorway when another vision of luxury unfolds before me.
There’s a real fireplace, plush velvet soft furnishings, a solid wood writing desk, heavy curtains framing large windows. There’s even a bottle of champagne chilling on ice.
Then I turn my gaze to the right and my stomach almost drops out of my vagina, and yes I know that isn’t biologically possible, but it certainly feels like it is.
The door to the bedroom is open, and there’s… Only. One. Bed.
One massive, king-sized, unmistakably singular bed.
“Um…” I start, but can’t locate the words to finish.
August follows my gaze, then clears his throat.
“Is this going to be okay?”
“I, um…” Jesus, where are my words?
“I would call down and ask for a twin but we’re supposed to be married. It might sound a little weird.” He shrugs then looks around the suite. “I could take the couch.”
There’s a note of disappointment in his voice as I follow his gaze. The couch is tiny.
“You’ll break it. I’ll take the couch.”
Silence and the sense that he’s glaring at me makes me turn.
“If you think I’m going to let you sleep on the couch, you need to learn a little more about me and fast.”
The aggression in his words knocks me backward.
“We’ll put pillows down the center of the bed. It’s certainly large enough. That way, we can both sleep in it but it doesn’t have to get too weird.”
He steps into the bedroom while I lean up against the doorframe, one brow arched.
“I think that ship sailed when you sent me half of the Saks Fifth Avenue shirt department.”
He looks appalled. “Oh come on, tell me I don’t have good taste.”
“In shirts, yes…” And ink, and gyms…
“You should definitely try the spa while we’re here,” he says, deftly changing the topic.
I take in his burly shape and raw manliness, again. “Are you, you know, into spas?”
He lifts a bag onto the bed and unzips it, his lips twitching into a grin. “Not especially.”
“Massages?”
As in, massage parlors? I’m trying to understand how this hunk of a man is single. Is it because he pays for his kicks?
“I endure them.”
“That sounds… fun?”
He drops some beach shorts on the bed and releases a short breath. “I’m ticklish.”
I smirk into my hand. “Oh, you shouldn’t have told me that.”
His gaze pans to me, dark. “You tickle me once, you don’t get paid.”
My mouth snaps shut and I instantly feel like the escort I am. I turn around and walk back into the suite, sitting heavily on the tiny couch.
One week, I remind myself.
Two hundred thousand dollars.
Still…
I stare at August still unpacking—boxers, crisp shirts, toiletries.
This is not going to be easy.
In fact… this is going to be quite possibly the hardest thing I’ve ever done.