Chapter 56
RAFE
We make it back to Italy the next day and return to the comfort of a house not haunted with quite as many memories. Paige is doing better. It’s clear in her energy levels, her quick replies and the lack of coughing.
I want to hover. But I have no reason to now that she’s better, and I told her far too much last night. She wants to unpack and shower. So I leave to get on with the work that always needs to be done.
There’s something I’m coordinating with the interim Mather & Wilde CEO that I need to tell Paige about. But she’s had a rough two days as it is, and this will upset her. It’ll have to wait. There’s also a scheduled print interview with the two of us. One of the few I’ve ever given.
They can all wait. The real world demands so much of us, and of her, and it can all wait. Just for the rest of today.
When evening comes, I walk into my bedroom to find that she’s already there. She’s gathering her things from my en suite.
“Feel better?”
“Yes. A little.” She walks into my wardrobe, holding a brush. I sit down on the edge of the bed and watch her brush her long golden hair in the mirror. Surrounded by clothes she’s no doubt planning to poach.
Her movements are slow. She could leave this room now, and go back to her own to brush her hair. But she’s doing it here.
The villa is empty now. All the guests are gone, and we’re not traveling. She could sleep in her own bedroom.
But she’s here.
“You don’t want to start sleeping in your own room,” I say.
It’s not a question. I’ve learned that she bristles at those. But it’s a guess, and I’m sure it’s a correct one.
She keeps brushing her hair. “I’m dragging it out to torture you.”
“Mhm. Sure you are.”
The brush stops, and she looks at me. “Maybe I’m just about to steal another of your shirts.”
“You already have about fifty.”
“A vest, maybe. I look good in vests. I could pair it with shorts.”
“You’re stalling, Wilde, and we both know it.”
She puts the brush down on one of the built-in dressers and starts braiding her long hair. She seems to sleep with it in a braid often. “I’ll leave when I’m good and ready, thank you very much.”
“If you like spending time with me that much, you could just come out and tell me,” I say. “It wouldn’t be the first time one of my investments appreciates.”
“That was a terrible joke.”
“Not a joke. A fact.”
“Using facts as jokes is arguably worse.” She leans against the doorjamb, pulling her braid down her side to finish it off. “You know, I don’t think I’ve fully explored how obnoxious I can be at night. I don’t think I’ve kicked you once. Or hogged all the covers.”
She is stalling. And she wants to keep sleeping together.
I think of her panic attack and the hints of insecurity I’ve seen behind the bluster. She likes when things happen. And going to bed means lying alone with her own thoughts. It means nights of tossing.
Turning to a sleeping pill or a drink, like I’ve done myself on occasion.
“Admit it. You’ve slept better in here than in your bedroom down the hall.”
Her eyes narrow. “You wish.”
“Fantastic response. Very well-thought-out. Witty, even.”
She turns around and starts rummaging through the t-shirts I have hanging in the walk-in. She grabs one and inspects the navy fabric. “We can’t all be highly educated, polylingual billionaire geniuses,” she says.
“You’re stealing again.”
“You stole my company.”
“You signed it over to me. With an intricate signature and a heart over the i, if I remember correctly.”
“It’s the secretly-bought-shares-for-years part I’m referring to,” she says. “And the heart was an improvisation. I wanted to make my signature take as long as possible because you were already annoyed that I was late.”
“I wasn’t annoyed.”
She looks over her shoulder at me.
“Fine. I was annoyed.”
“I could read you like a book, even back then.” She turns back toward the wall and reaches for the hem of her dress.
She starts pulling it up, and I look away, toward the windows that look out over the darkness of the gardens.
Even though I’ve seen her naked at this point.
Even though I helped her out of that dress and into a t-shirt when she was shivering with a fever.
She is good at wielding her beauty like a blade.
When I look back, the navy fabric of my t-shirt is covering her form again. It ends right below her ass, kissing the tops of her thighs. No one’s legs should be that long.
I get up from the bed and cross the distance to her. A worthy opponent she is, but I’ve played many games in my life.
“You don’t like sleeping alone,” I say, and start unbuttoning my shirt.
“I didn’t say that, exactly.”
I shrug out of the shirt and put it in the hamper. Her eyes drop to my torso and linger just a little too long. Two can play this game.
I reach for the buckle of my belt and start undoing it. “If you want to share a bed permanently, you’re welcome to. I’m not insisting you leave.”
She looks away from me. “Me planning to ruin your sleep is a kink for you? Good to know.”
“The nightmares are fewer when you’re around. And you waking me up is useful,” I say. “Do you have panic attacks at night sometimes?”
She looks back at me, her lips thinning. “Fine. Maybe I’ve slept better in here than I did in my own bed. But if you tell anyone that, I will kill you.”
“Our prenup won’t give you back the shares if you’re found convicted.” I reach for the sweatpants and tug them on. I hate sleeping this clothed. But if she’s going to be in bed with me every night from here on out, I need barriers.
“I won’t be convicted,” she says, and walks past me to the bed. She’s fully herself again. No more lingering weakness from the sickness.
It’s distracting when she looks like that. No makeup, long legs, blonde braid and covered in the soft cotton fabric that I’ve bought myself. If she thinks it still annoys me that she steals my clothes, I’ll let her.
My clothes on her body. My ring on her finger. A custom Artemis watch around her wrist. Small, annoying, frustratingly hot ways I’m touching her without my hands, when that’s all I fucking want to do.
I want it so much that it’s driving me insane.
“Can we continue this argument lying down?” I pull back the covers and grab the book I’m reading.
“I have a few stipulations.”
“Of course you do.”
“Sleeping in the same bed permanently is a quid pro quo agreement. We both benefit.” She slips into the bed beside me. “Right?”
“Yes. Very quid pro quo.” I meet her chestnut eyes. This feels like a farce. A lie we’re both indulging in, because it feels far safer than sincerity.
“I panic less. You have fewer nightmares,” she says.
“Win-win,” I agree.
“Yes. We might as well get something out of this marriage. Beyond saving my company and all that. But we shouldn’t… cuddle. Not on a regular basis.”
“Of course not,” I agree. “Not on a regular basis.”
“Only on special occasions,” she says. There’s a smile on her face that she tries hard to hide, and it does something to me.
I think this woman might break me.
“Deal,” I say, and think of the news I have to tell her tomorrow.
She’s going to hate me for it.