Chapter 17 #2
Paige reaches for her flashcards. “Well, I think that’s all I know about you. Just the basic life story, I guess.” She takes a deep breath. “I’ll give you my abbreviated story, because I’m assuming you don’t know anything about me, really. So—”
“Not true,” I interrupt. “I do extensive research on all women I marry.”
“Oh?” she asks. “I’m nowhere near as public as you are. If you search me on the internet, I think you’ll find an old article I wrote in high school and maybe a few tennis results.”
I lean back in the chair. “Your name is Paige Sarah Wilde. You’re twenty-eight years old.
You’re an only child. Your great-grandfather built a shipyard out on Cape Ann almost a hundred years ago.
He merged with a small-scale business that made sails.
The Mathers, although they’ve long since been bought out.
Your grandfather grew it into a company that also made leather loafers and bags out of old sails.
Your father and uncle inherited it and split the shares fifty-fifty.
Your parents both worked in the business, but they died in a car crash when you were—” I pause. “What was it? Nineteen?”
“Yes,” she says.
Her eyes have narrowed during my story.
“I’m sorry about that,” I say, like she did with me.
“You were an honor roll student in high school. You were also on the debate team and you played tennis competitively. You got a tennis scholarship to a college nearby so you could intern at Mather & Wilde on the weekends and during the summers. A brief stint in New York at a PR firm—you lived in Brooklyn for six months, if I’m not mistaken. ”
Her lips have thinned. “You know a lot.”
“I know more,” I say. “For the last four years, you have lived back in Gloucester and worked with the PR team. Despite living near a tennis court, you almost never play, which makes me think something at college killed your love of the game. You mostly eat lunch with the other employees. You’re well-liked in the company.
If I remember correctly, you drive a Nissan. ”
She looks uncomfortable, and it’s perfection. I’ve thrown off her usual chaos-loving ease.
“I’m guessing you thought about adopting an animal at some point?” I ask. “Because you used to volunteer at an animal shelter in Rockport, so you clearly like animals. It doesn’t seem like you date much. Your last serious relationship was—”
“Okay!” she interrupts. “I get it. You know more about me than I know about you. Did you hire a private investigator?”
“My team has one on retainer,” I say. “I had you investigated as soon as you sent me that email. You don’t think I would have agreed to just anyone offering me that proposition, did you? You’re an investment.”
“So you already know everything,” she says, and crosses her arms over her chest. “Did you have someone follow me, too?”
“No,” I say. “That’s more your uncle’s style.”
Her eyebrows knit together. “We don’t hire private investigators.”
“Sure, you don’t,” I drawl. She has to know, I think. I hold out my hand. “Give me those flashcards. Let’s see what you’ve prepared.”
She holds on to them for a few more seconds, like they’re precious. But then she hands them to me and reaches for the bottle of wine. “We’re going to need more alcohol if we’re doing this.”
I flip through the cards, going faster and faster. These are… meticulous. “Who’s the better cook?” I ask.
“Yes. If we’re home alone one evening, what do we do? Who cooks?” She picks up her glass. “What do we watch on TV?”
“That’s so very…”
“Domestic? Real couples do things like that.” She takes a sip. I wonder if it’s getting to her head, much like it is to mine. “I’ve tried researching your dating history. All I found were two women over the course of almost a decade.”
“I’m private.”
“Clearly.” She says it like it’s an insult. “We need to know these things. Are you a good cook? I’m decent.”
“I know how to cook, yes.”
“Okay. So you do the cooking.” She taps her red-nailed fingers on the table. “What do we do to relax?”
I lift an eyebrow. “Not a single person is going to ask a newly in love couple that. Not if they don’t want to be—”
“The answer isn’t sex!”
“And why wouldn’t it be?” I lift my eyebrows. “That’s what two people in the honeymoon phase do. Or do you have a different experience?”
Her cheeks look brighter. Victory flares through me, knowing she’s the one on the back foot. “I’m not talking about that with you.”
“This was your idea,” I say. “And you’re the one who left a sex toy on my bed. What did you buy yourself, hmm?”
She tilts her chin up. “A few very expensive vibrators, and I mentioned at the cashier that my husband finishes very… quickly, let’s say. So we need the helping hand.”
Irritation slithers down my spine. I’d take my goddamn time with her, not that it’ll ever happen. “Remember what I told you. Don’t moan too loud. I don’t want to hear a single thing from your side of the hall.”
“That goes both ways, Montclair.”
“And just for your information, since you want to get to know me better—I wouldn’t finish quickly. No woman has ever left my bed unsatisfied.” I reach for another bottle of wine and start uncorking it with practiced movements. “I don’t do anything that isn’t excellent.”
“The arrogance!” she says. “You wouldn’t make me come, that’s for sure.”
“I don’t want to make you come,” I retort.
“Good.”
“Great.”
She grabs the flashcards from where I left them on the table. “Stop distracting me. Let’s see… Do you have any tattoos?”
“No,” I say, and pour myself another glass. “You do, though.”
Her eyes narrow. “How do you know that?”
“I didn’t. But it’s an educated guess.” I cock my head. “Let me guess. It was an impulsive decision. You were out with a few friends.”
“I don’t like your tone,” she says.
“You don’t need to.” I pour her another glass. It’s not hard to imagine her, spontaneous and smiling, in a tattoo parlor at two a.m. “What is it?”
She takes the glass I hand her, but she doesn’t respond. She just looks at me with a frustrated expression.
“You don’t want to tell me. It’s that bad, is it?” I lean back again and stretch out my legs. This is fun. “Live, laugh, love on your low back.”
“No.”
“Carpe diem in comic sans.”
“I hate you.”
“I’m well aware. But if I were really your husband, I’d know what your tattoo is.” My eyes drop down, and I linger on the bare length of her arms. She’s gotten tan in the few days we’ve been here.
It has to be somewhere hidden.
“If I were really your wife, you’d know better than to push this topic.”
“You were the one who asked me about tattoos. Don’t tell me you can’t handle it back?”
“It’s on my ribs, but it’s not any of your excellent suggestions.” She sets down the glass and lifts up the edge of her shirt. I see a taut stomach and the edge of a black bra. My hand tightens around my glass.
There’s a small pattern of waves across her ribs. “It was an impulsive thing,” she admits.
“Shocking.” I look away from her skin, from her bra. The wine doesn’t burn as much as whiskey does, and I crave that feeling instead. Something to dull the ache within.
“I could suggest some tattoos for you,” she says. “How about asshole tattooed across your forehead?”
“Too on the nose,” I say. “I’m charming at first glance. People have to get to know me to see the darkness within.”
“Funny. I saw it right away,” she says. She lifts the glass to her lips, and I hate that we’re good at this. That conversation flows easily with her. It’s fun, and it shouldn’t be.
“Did you? I’m flattered,” I say.
“We’ve barely gone through any of my questions,” she says. She leans back against the chair and looks at me with slightly wine-drunk eyes. “I wanted to know if you sleep in a coffin at night.”
“You saw my bed when you snuck into my bedroom. Highly suspicious of you, by the way.”
“It could be a decoy. You could be hiding the coffin somewhere else,” she says. Her legs are softly curved, long and shapely. “We’ll have to kiss, you know. Eventually. For the guests or the pictures, if we’re going to sell this love illusion.”
The air seems to tighten around us.
“I’m aware,” I say. “It’s one of the greatest sacrifices I’ll ever have to make.”
Pressing my lips to hers is a terrible fucking idea. I think about her finger in my mouth earlier. Her parted lips and her moan.
“It’s the one thing that makes me regret this whole deal,” she says with barely concealed distaste. “Do you have a forked tongue?”
“Do you have fangs?” I ask.
“No, but I can still bite.” She tilts her head to the side. “I’ll refrain if we have an… audience.”
“I’m such a lucky man,” I drawl, and take another long sip of my wine. “You sound curious.”
“I’m not. I already know kissing you is going to be terrible. What if I catch something?”
I lean forward and brace my elbows against my knees. She’s so terribly, frustratingly annoying. Schoolyard taunts and a big mouth. Full lips and pretty hair. “Don’t worry. Excellence isn’t contagious.”
“You mean having a big ego isn’t.” She sets down her glass. It’s a 2014 Nebbiolo, one of my personal favorites. “We’ll have to make sure it looks natural. You know, at the wedding.”
“Darling, you’re not suggesting we practice?” The nickname slips out, even without an audience. Her eyes narrow, and that’s why I’m using it.
Because she hates it, and I love making her squirm.
She leans forward. “No practice in the world would make you a good kisser.”
“No practice in the world would make me enjoy kissing you.”
“Then we agree,” she says. Her lips are cherry colored, tinged by the red wine.
“Agreed,” I say. “No practice.”
“None at all,” she says.