Chapter 15
LIAM
Peyton blinks at me, stunned. Then she drops the box back on the tower and crosses her arms over her chest belligerently.
“Are you kidding me?” Her chin juts out, and her eyes narrow into dangerous slits. “This place is the size of a municipal airport. Why can’t I sleep in one of the seven hundred gazillion guest rooms without being within snoring distance of you?”
“I don’t snore,” I correct automatically. “And it’s not about space. It’s about optics.”
“Optics,” she repeats. “Who are we trying to impress, the toaster?”
Her foot taps against the floor. She’s got that look again, the one from the lobby: fire and defiance. I run a hand through my hair, regretting that I didn’t prep her for this part of the arrangement.
“I have a housekeeper, Mrs. Gable. She comes every day to clean.”
I scrub my jaw. I’ve been running on adrenaline and painkillers for twenty-four hours, and my endurance is running out.
But seeing her like this—flushed, curls practically vibrating with indignation—wakes me up better than the double espresso I had this morning.
“This is a very small town. People gossip about everything. What I eat for breakfast. What kind of toilet paper I buy. And definitely about whether my brand-new wife is sleeping in a separate bedroom.”
Peyton rolls her eyes, shifting her weight to one hip. “I’ll get up early and make the bed. I’ll strip the sheets. Problem solved. I can fluff a pillow.”
“No.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “No?”
“I can’t risk it. Mrs. Gable is thorough. She notices if a coaster is moved three inches to the left. If she finds a stray hair in the guest room, we’re done.” I lean against the wall. Gosh, the leg is killing me again. I can’t wait to lie down, even if it’s next to this walking argument.
Usually, resistance annoys me. With her, it feels dangerously like fighting might be fun.
“We need everyone to believe this is real. Especially the staff. You can’t stay in a guest room, period. One slip-up, one morning you oversleep, one time you forget to fluff the pillows, and the rumor mill starts turning. I can’t have it.”
“So I’m supposed to—what? Share a bed with a stranger?” Her voice squeaks higher. “We met yesterday!”
“What’s the issue? We shared a bed last night,” I point out. “Was that so terrible?”
Color floods her cheeks. “That was bearable only because you were unconscious the entire time.”
Not the entire time. Not when I woke up clinging to her like a drowning man to a raft. If rafts had curves and smelled of orange blossoms.
That can’t happen again. If I spoon her, I’m going to freak her out.
She’s running from a controlling ex; the last thing she needs is me manhandling her in her sleep.
And I could do without a daily reminder of how soft and warm my fake wife feels when her guard is down.
I’ll tie myself to my side of the mattress if I have to.
Build a pillow barricade. Something. But we must sell this marriage to the world and act like married people in everything except sex.
That’s the deal. That’s what makes this work.
“My bed is very big,” I offer.
Peyton’s flush deepens to a shade of emergency-flare red. “You’re not helping. And you take up a lot of space.”
The reaction is captivating. The way her gaze darts away from mine, while her teeth catch her lower lip—full and pink and entirely distracting.
Is she nervous? Or is she attracted to me?
More troubling: Am I attracted to her?
The question hits me square in the chest, bypassing the bulletproof vest of logistics and sarcasm I’ve been wearing all day.
I’ve been so focused on getting her on board, on convincing my parents, on managing the fallout from her ex, that I haven’t stopped to examine what I feel when I look at her.
The answer, when I let myself consider it, is inconvenient.
“I’ll sleep on top of the covers.” I steer us back to practicality. “Use a separate comforter. We won’t even touch.”
“Won’t two comforters be suspicious to your Sherlock Holmes housekeeper?”
“Alice will assume you prefer an extra blanket. Or that I steal the sheets. It makes us seem more real, not less.”
Peyton throws her hands in the air, the sleeves of Lila’s too-big sweater flapping like wings. “Is this how this marriage is going to go? You just… getting your way about everything?”
The frustration in her voice slaps me with guilt. She’s right. I’ve been bulldozing her from the moment I proposed this arrangement. My timeline, my rules, my house, my bed. I’ve given her protection and resources, but I’ve taken all the control.
“You’ll call the shots on everything else, I promise. But on this, please do as I ask.”
“Okay, but that’s it.”
I wince. “I have only one more tiny request.”
Her jaw drops. “If you’re about to tell me you sleep naked, I’m walking out that door and filing for divorce. Tonight. I don’t care how good your lawyers are.”
My lips twitch. “I’ll come to bed in a parka if you prefer. Full Antarctic expedition gear.”
She doesn’t laugh, but the tension around her eyes eases.
“Then what’s the request?”
I take a breath, readying myself to hand her a jagged piece of truth I haven’t given to anyone. Not even Lila.
“I need you not to bring your phone into the room.”
Her expression shifts from wary to bewildered. “What?”
“Leave it charging somewhere else. Don’t bring it to bed.”
“Why? So when you try to murder me in my sleep, I can’t call for help?”
“No.” I almost smile at the accusation, but the weight of what I’m about to say kills any humor. “Since that meme of me went viral—” I pause, hating that I have to explain this. “I haven’t been able to fall asleep next to anyone.”
“So you’re worried I’m going to take a picture of you drooling and post it on my socials?”
“I know I’m being paranoid. But last night was the first time in over a year I slept with someone.”
Understanding dawns across her features, chased by surprise.
The implications of that statement swirl behind her eyes. Questions gather in the brown depths: Does he mean he hasn’t slept next to anyone in a year? Or that he hasn’t had sex for that long?
But she doesn’t ask. And I don’t volunteer the truth.
The silence stretches between us, not heavy, but shaping itself around the exposed roots of our secrets. It’s the intimacy of a shared shadow, a silent acknowledgment we both have ghosts that come haunting us in the night.
“Okay,” she says.
“Really?”
“Yeah. No phones in the bedroom.” She points a finger at me. “But in the next three to five years, there will be things I want that you won’t want to do. And when that happens, you owe me two.”
I tilt my head, smirking. “Do you want that in writing?”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“Really? I was ready to pinky swear on it.” I hold up my little finger, wiggling it. “But I’m honored by the vote of confidence. I’m glad our marriage is already building on such solid trust.”
She scoffs. “You’d better keep your fingers to yourself.”
I raise both hands in surrender. “I’ll be nothing but a true gentleman.”
Peyton shakes her head as she scoops up her box again. “Now, if we’re done negotiating the terms of my incarceration, I’m going to get changed. As grateful as I am for your personal shopping services, this bikini is chafing.”
She turns on her heel and marches toward the hallway, then freezes. She looks left and right, and her shoulders hunch just before she spins back to face me, her expression caught somewhere between annoyance and embarrassment.
“Where’s the bathroom?”
“Second door on the right, down the hall.” I point. “But remember to bring your toothbrush upstairs, the bedroom is the first door on the left.”
“Right.”
She stomps off down the hallway, the box bouncing against her hip with each aggressive step, her behind swaying indignantly.
Yeah, fighting with her isn’t exhausting; it’s fueling me. It’s like redlining the Ducati on a wet road—stupid, dangerous, exhilarating, and demanding every ounce of my attention.