Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
PRESLEY
I’ve been mentally preparing myself for the arrival of my hus—of Hollis, for days.
I cleaned my apartment from top to bottom. I made room in my closet and cleaned out the drawers in my dresser. I even gave him precious counter space in the bathroom.
I don’t know how any of this is going to work. I haven’t lived with anyone in years. I tried having a roommate back in my early twenties and quickly learned it wasn’t for me. It was like having an intruder in my personal space all the time. I never felt like I could relax.
And I’ve definitely never lived with a man.
Will he feel like an intruder too? Will this drive us apart?
Before my shift starts at the bar, I try to come up with a list of rules or boundaries, if you will. We came up with some basics back in Vegas, but those were more parameters than actual rules. Having a general housekeeping rule for your fake marriage is always a good idea, right?
But the whole time I try to come up with something, I draw a blank. All I can think about is him, coming in that door. Being here. Here. In my bar.
I don’t know how many times I’ve lain in bed over the years, wondering where he was and if he was all right. I’d picture him walking through that door and coming back to us.
To me.
And when he finally does, just a few hours later, nothing could have prepared me for the way he looks behind the bar at Creeds.
Why does he have to look so…at home? So natural and at ease. He settles in quickly, learning the register in minutes. He’s polite to the customers, but not creepy. He and I move around each other like we’ve been doing it for years.
I try to convince myself it is because he’s a former bartender, and it would be exactly the same with anyone with this much experience. But even I know that’s a lie, and that’s what makes this whole situation so dangerous. That’s why we need rules.
Otherwise, one of us is bound to get hurt.
“Did you like the band?” Hollis asks, making me jump.
I drop my keys just as we walk up to the door of my apartment.
He bends down to pick them up, and I try not to notice the way his thighs flex in his jeans. I am very interested in what his workout routine is, because it has to be…intense.
He rises and hands them over, just as I realize he asked me a question. “Oh, um…yes. I’ve booked them several times, and they always bring a crowd. Even on a Tuesday, which is a rarity. Usually we’re pretty slow.”
I unlock the door, and he waits for me to go first.
Why am I suddenly so nervous?
Flipping the lights on, I turn just as he steps inside. I see him take a tentative look around, and my stomach flips. Does he hate it? Is he regretting this?
Am I?
“It’s nice,” he finally says.
“It’s not much,” I try to argue. Nearly everything in here is secondhand. After living in my parents’ house, he must think this is a dump in comparison.
He drops his bags by the sofa and takes a step forward. His eyes meet mine. “I’ve lived in a lot of places that weren’t much. This is perfect, Pres. I’m grateful for the hospitality.”
My cheeks warm at the compliment and his intense gaze. “Not sure offering up my sofa is great hospitality, but you’re welcome nonetheless.”
His expression dims ever so slightly. “I’ve slept on a lot worse.” I suddenly wish I could take it back, but he doesn’t give me the opportunity. “Where do you want my things? I doubt you want it all dumped on your floor?”
“Oh, you can just leave them there for now. I made some room for you, but it’s late and…” I glance around, feeling awkward.
This is all feeling very real.
He’s going to be sleeping in my living room, just down the hall.
His stuff will be next to mine in the shower. Does he sleep in? What if he sees my underwear in the laundry? Will I see his?
A week ago, these were all questions I would have felt comfortable bringing up with him. We would have laughed about it, but I doubt there was a subject between us that was off limits—except maybe romantic relationships. I don’t think I want to know about his dating history. Like ever.
But since we woke up in that hotel room, things have been weird between us. I feel like I’m talking to a stranger at the checkout line in the supermarket, rather than a lifelong friend I just happened to marry on a wild night in Vegas.
“Are you hungry?”
I expect him to say he’s too tired. It’s after three in the morning, and he’s still on Eastern time, which makes it even later for him, but he just nods and replies, “Starving, actually.”
“Okay.” I smile to myself. Maybe we just need food to help smooth things over. I begin walking to the kitchen, but he stops me.
“Why don’t you take a seat, and I’ll make us something?” He points to the single barstool tucked under the kitchen island that I use instead of a dining table.
Shit, I should probably have two of those now.
I stand there staring as he walks over and starts to wash his large hands in my tiny sink. In fact, my whole kitchen looks ridiculously small with him in it. “But you’ve had a long day, and you don’t even know where anything is.”
“We’ve both had long days, and I can manage. Plus, I still don’t sleep much. Kind of handy in my chosen profession.” He shrugs as he starts to roll up his sleeves. I always thought I preferred tattooed men, but his muscular forearms, with their smooth, tanned skin, are beginning to prove me wrong.
Why am I suddenly picturing him with a Goonies tattoo then?
“Besides, I like to cook.”
I shove that thought aside and fold my arms across my chest, trying to look offended. “I like to cook.” He gives me an amused smirk, already rummaging through cabinets until he finds a sauté pan. “Okay, fine. I don’t mind cooking. I just prefer when someone else does it.”
“Well, consider me your personal chef for the next three months,” he says lightly, though his voice is strained. “Grilled cheese, okay?”
I nod. “It’s either that or eggs. I’m pretty low on food. I probably should have gone grocery shopping.”
“We can go tomorrow,” he suggests. “Then I’ll know what you like.”
“Seems like you already do.”
His gaze finally lifts to meet mine. “Always have. Doesn’t mean I don’t need a refresher, though.”
“Right.” I swallow, watching as he reaches into the fridge to grab the butter and cheese. “And maybe while we’re spending some time together, we can work on what exactly we’re going to tell my family on Sunday.”
He arches a brow and smirks. “And how are we going to convince them we’re in love when things are so very awkward between us?”
I let out a relieved breath. “Yes. It’s bad, right?”
He chuckles, and the sound of it instantly soothes the anxiety storming inside of me. “Yeah, we’ve been a little off since Naked Friday.”
“Naked Friday? Is that what you’re calling that morning in Vegas?” I snort out a laugh. “Also, we weren’t naked!”
He shrugs. “Sounds better than half-naked Friday. And a guy can dream, right?”
I throw a towel at him, and he tries to duck but catches it at the last second and throws it back in my direction. I laugh when it lands on the counter next to me. He was never great at sports.
Decent runner, though.
“Thanks for the help tonight,” I say as he assembles the sandwiches and places them on the pan. “I really appreciate it.”
“I was happy to do it,” he answers. “I meant what I said, Pres. We’re a team now. I can help with the bar’s financials, but I can just as easily cover behind the bar.”
“You were pretty good at it.”
“Pretty good?” He raises an eyebrow.
“You know how good you are.” I roll my eyes. “Do you really need me to stroke your ego?”
“Of course I do, but I’m always up for a little…stroking.” He waggles his eyebrows in an overly suggestive manner, and I choke out a laugh. He grins.
I watch as he butters the bread and assembles the sandwiches. The flirty banter has me thinking about earlier.
“Do you think we need rules?”
He looks up from the pan, a note of curiosity in his expression. “I thought we already had those.”
“Setting an exit plan and deciding what we’ll tell people is more like building the foundation than actually creating rules.”
“Okay,” he agrees with a slow nod. “So what were you thinking?”
I steady myself and gather the courage I need to say, “I think we should keep things platonic.”
His eyes meet mine, and for a split second, there is a searing intensity in those green eyes that makes my stomach flip. Then, a moment later, he straightens, and it’s gone. “I’m sleeping on the couch, Pres. I figured that was implied.”
“Right.” I laugh nervously. “Of course.”
“But we will have to make an exception when we’re around others—like your family or friends. They’ll expect a certain level of…intimacy.”
I gulp. “Sure.”
“And we might want to practice—”
“Practice?” My voice jumps an entire octave.
“You didn’t let me finish.” He chuckles, making me blush. “We might want to try holding hands in public or whatever so we don’t appear awkward around each other.”
“Oh.” I relax. “Yeah, that makes sense. But that’s all it is? Practice?” His eyes meet mine again. “Because I don’t want there to be any confusion. You’re my friend, Hollis. I can’t risk that.”
His hand finds mine and gives it a gentle squeeze. “Just practice, Pres.” I nod, unsure what to feel. Grateful, maybe? For his understanding. But all I feel is a sharp wave of sadness.
This isn’t how it’s supposed to be.
“What else you got?”
“Oh, um…” I pause, biting my lip. This one I’m even less sure about, but I need to say it. “I don’t think we should date, even if we’re not—”
“Done.”
He flips the sandwiches, each a rich golden brown. The kitchen smells like melted cheese and butter. My stomach growls.
My brow lifts. “Just like that?”
He sets the spatula down, giving me his full attention. “Pres, you are my wife. Even if that is in name only, it means something to me. I would never even think of looking at another woman while your ring is on my finger.”
Emotions clog my throat, and I’m at a loss for words. “Okay,” I manage to say.
A hint of a smile tugs at his lips as he plates our food. Sliding one of the plates my way, he asks. “Anything else? Want to talk about monthly expenses? Chores?”
I shake my head, needing a break from this conversation for now. “We can figure that out as we go, but I do want to make one thing totally clear.”
He goes still, his eyes turning serious. “Yeah, sure.”
“The toilet seat always stays down, Beck. Always.”
He barks out a laugh, and I join in just moments later. “Got it, boss.”
“I am not your boss!”
A slow grin spreads across his face. “Okay, wife.”