9. Emerson
EMERSON
“What time is it?” Garrett grumbles into the mattress, half of his face tucked under the pillow, dark ink covering the upper part of his back as he lies gloriously naked and sleepy.
He’s adorable—the perfect balance between hard muscles and soft lines, his expression almost boyish as he stretches, snatching his pillow with both arms and nuzzling the dark blue fabric.
“Six.”
“In the morning?” he asks, popping open one dark brown eye before groaning and reaching for me, his arm trying to hook around my waist as I scoot closer to the end of the bed and grab my phone.
DESMOND: I sent you the talking points for the video call with your father
DESMOND: He’s been by my desk twice already this morning—I might need to work from home when you’re not here
DESMOND: New proposal in your inbox for charitable donations
EMERSON: I’m fine with you working from home when I am—we just need to make sure Quinn doesn’t burn the place down
DESMOND: I told her she’s not allowed to use the microwave unattended—there were actual flames
EMERSON: I don’t think I pay you enough
DESMOND: If I have to babysit her I might need a raise
EMERSON: If you have to babysit her she needs to be relocated.
DESMOND: We’ll talk about it tomorrow when you’re in the office
EMERSON: Add it to the list
DESMOND: Bold of you to assume it’s not already on there
“Who could you possibly be texting this early?”
“Des.”
“Theo would murder me.”
“Yes, well, we all can’t keep morning-after-a-house-party hours.”
“Sure you can. Tell the boss you’re sick. I’ll write you a note.”
“I am the boss.”
“Even better. I’ll write it with my tongue”—he pauses, his lips curving up in a wolfish smirk even though his eyelids are closed—“between your legs.”
Tempting.
So very tempting.
“Shouldn’t you be in the studio?”
“At six in the morning? No. I need, like, four hours before I even contemplate it.”
“Ten? I’ll be on my third meeting by then at least.”
“Well, let me know when you need a break. I’ll be more than happy to assist you.” He grins, rolling onto his back and propping his hand behind his head. He looks good stretched out like this, the sheet dipping low on his hips leaving little to the imagination.
Not that I need to imagine anything. I’m well and magnificently acquainted with Garrett’s body.
He’s as wild and willing as I am—both of us pushing the limits to new and incredible heights.
It’s strange to think, but I feel safer with him after only a handful of nights than I have with some long-term partners.
“Does playing for me count as a break?” I ask, needing to pull myself out of my head and the spiral of how incredible my fake husband seems to be.
“You want me to play?” He sounds surprised before his expression turns sheepish. “Sorry, yeah, I totally can.”
“I don’t know how I’m supposed to take that.”
“Would you be shocked to know that some people—”
“Women,” I supply helpfully as his lips twitch.
“Some people…only like the status that comes with being with the rock star side of me rather than the musician. I forgot that you don’t care; I mean you definitely married down.”
The last part is delivered with a self-deprecating tone that doesn’t quite hit the mark.
“Mr. North,” I purr, letting the sheet drop from my body as I crawl over to straddle his lap, “make no mistake. I might have married you in Vegas on a bet, but there’s no chance I would have agreed to that or this”—I motion between us—“if I believed I was marrying down.”
“You’re doing amazing things for my ego,” he praises, his hands stroking up and down my thighs and hips.
“Is that a euphemism for your dick?” I ask, wiggling as he hardens beneath me. “Because you have ten minutes to make something happen before I’m late and have to tell my father why my husband—gah!”
I yelp as he flips us over, his legs getting tangled in the sheet as he pins me to the bed, his mouth pressing kisses down my throat as he fights to free himself.
It’s fun and playful, the giggle that escapes completely unlike me.
But I love it—and in the quiet of the morning, I give myself over to Garrett North, already knowing full well that I’ll be late to my meeting.
And so, so worth it.
Des’s expression is neutral as I jump on the video call, my father huffing as I make a show of turning the page in my notepad and smiling.
“Good morning.”
“You’re late.”
“I had the wrong Wi-Fi password so I needed to get that situated,” I say brightly as Des hides a smile behind a sip of coffee and my father blinks at his screen.
If my marriage wasn’t fake, I could tell my father I’m late because I’m a newlywed, but I can’t because I don’t need him knowing I’m fucking my temporary husband.
A lot.
And often.
“Fine,” he says, grumbling before launching into an hour’s worth of numbers, fires that have been put out since my marriage was leaked to the press, and a new opportunity for expanding our charitable giving.
When it’s over, my father excuses himself and exits the call, leaving Des and me to debrief.
“I’ll be in the office tomorrow, so make a list of everything you need me there for and push off what can wait. I’ll be answering emails in the car and then whatever I have to deal with when I get back.”
“You have the presentation at the end of next week.”
“Shit,” I mutter, clicking through the screens on my laptop. “I’ll stay at the apartment the night before at least—make sure there are no issues.”
“Like Wi-Fi,” he deadpans and I snort out a laugh. Des is normally serious, but every once in a while he’ll let his dry sense of humor out to play.
“Exactly like that.”
“Let me know if you need me to draw you up a workout or meal plan,” he says casually. “I know you’re usually invincible, but the added travel is going to be an adjustment and because you’re not here you’re going to try and work extra to compensate for it. I don’t want you to burn yourself out.”
I open my mouth to object but close it. Des has been with me for seven years and I’ve watched him go through various preparations for fitness competitions.
Gaining weight.
Cutting weight.
Unless there’s something happening at the office, he almost always brings a lunch, his containers stacked neatly in the fridge without fail.
“You know what? That would be great, thank you. Just make sure you keep in mind it’s me and I’m absolutely going to eat pizza and almost never drink enough water.”
“They’re guidelines—nothing to live and die by, but diet and exercise are usually the first things to be neglected when an environment is stressful.”
“I appreciate your concern, truly, and I’ll make sure that Garrett is on the same page so he can help with something other than the Wi-Fi.”
Des coughs into his fist, his eyes dancing with amusement. “On that note, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Text me if something comes up.”
“You got it.”
He disconnects the call before I release the breath I’ve been holding—the one that’s about more than just today and more than just normal stress. It’s days of trying to hold everything together with a smile.
As much as I’d love to talk to Tom’s wife about this, we’re not quite there yet which is unfortunate because she’s right next door.
But that leaves only one other person. Ignoring the reality that my circle is microscopically small, I type out a text and wait.
EMERSON: I’m sleeping with my husband
ISLA: As you should
EMERSON: Isla—I have a HUSBAND
ISLA: I know. I saw it online
ISLA: And then Oakey called
EMERSON: Why?
ISLA: Because we still share a brain and he needed to not strangle you
EMERSON: Fair but also he had it easy with us
ISLA: He did…until you blew up his life the second he got back from his wedding
EMERSON: It wasn’t my fault
EMERSON: We were supposed to just get an annulment
ISLA: Yeah but you married someone
ISLA: Willingly
EMERSON: I know
ISLA: So what’s the problem?
EMERSON: I just needed to tell someone
ISLA: Well, enjoy your orgasms…speaking of which I should find my husband
EMERSON: It’s the middle of the day…
ISLA: Hank would walk uphill both ways in a snowstorm
EMERSON: That’s dedication
ISLA: You have no idea
On second thought, maybe I do.
Now where is my husband…