Chapter 17
PEYTON
I’m wrapped in a heavy blanket of warmth and spice.
It’s a delicious weight over me, but it’s slipping away.
I moan in protest, chasing the heat, nuzzling against a solid mass.
Mmm, I don’t remember my mattress being so firm under me.
And when did my bedding start to smell of spices?
Wait, Matt’s bed smells like baby powder, a cloying, sweet scent that sticks to the back of my throat.
But I left Matt. I’m free of him. But I am married…
to Liam. I blink awake and look up, meeting gray eyes.
Liam smirks down at me. “Comfortable?”
His chin brushes my forehead as he speaks.
I’m draped over him, burrowed into his chest, my arm across his stomach, and my right thigh flung over his legs, pinning him to the mattress.
A tangle of blankets is caught between us, but that doesn’t change the fact that I’m clinging to him like a horny koala.
I never did this with Matt. Even in sleep, I kept to my side of the bed, maintaining a respectable distance. Why did I have to develop an embarrassing cuddle reflex over my fake husband?
I scramble backward, flailing, putting a frantic two feet of space between us, cheeks flaming. “Sorry, I don’t usually—I mean, I never—”
Liam props himself up on one elbow, looking unfairly fresh for someone who woke up with a stranger drooling on his pectorals. His glasses are gone, and his dark hair is a mess of spikes that shouldn’t look this great but works for him.
“Don’t worry about it.” His voice is a rumble, sleep-rough and too intimate in the dim bedroom. “I understand the impulse. I’m very cuddly.”
I scowl at him, gathering the comforter around me. “Yeah, cute and cuddly is exactly how I’d describe you.”
He stretches, his black T-shirt riding up to reveal a strip of taut skin and the dip of his hipbones. I force my eyes away.
“You forgot ‘generous.’ I let you use me as a body pillow without complaint.” He sits up, wincing when he moves his injured leg.
I groan in shame and flop back against the pillows. “What time is it?”
“Six.”
“What are you doing up so early?”
“I go running every morning.”
I stare at him. “Running?”
“Yes, that thing where you bounce your arms and legs in quick succession.”
“I know what running is,” I snap, rubbing sleep from my eyes. “But I never thought people actually did it willingly at this hour. Also, hello? Your leg?” I gesture at his lower half. “You can’t run on that.”
He tilts his head, a slow smile spreading across his face. “What a good wife you are. Already telling me what I can’t do before I even had coffee.”
“Are you seriously going for a run?”
“No, but I can’t change my internal clock. Jog or not, I naturally wake up at six.”
Of course he does. Bet he also flosses twice a day and enjoys doing his taxes. Those are the only kind of people who naturally wake up at six. I narrow my eyes, trying to decide if I have the energy to smother him with a pillow, or if I should just go back to sleep.
Before I can do either, he stands and limps toward the bathroom.
The lock clicks, and the shower starts running.
It’s fine that he’s naked behind that door, with water sluicing down his muscular body. Rivulets tracing the lines of his abs, soap bubbles sliding down the dip of his spine. I bet he has a great ass.
The water stops. Long minutes pass before the bathroom door opens, unleashing a billow of steam into the cool bedroom.
And, sweet mercy. Liam steps out wearing only a white towel slung low over his hips and a fresh bandage over his calf.
His shoulders are broad, tapering down to a sculpted chest dusted with dark hair. Water droplets cling to his skin, tracing paths over ripped abs and the V of muscles disappearing below the towel. A darker line of hair goes from his belly button down toward—
Liam catches me looking. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t preen, but the corner of his mouth ticks up as he walks past the bed and disappears into the walk-in closet.
He reemerges ten minutes later in a suit.
No ridiculous pants to save me from the impact today.
This one is expensive and tailored, and, despite improved skin coverage, it’s not much better than the towel.
It fits him like a shadow, emphasizing his build.
His dark hair is styled back from his forehead, still damp.
He has shaved, accentuating the sharp angles of his jaw.
“Bathroom’s all yours,” he says casually, adjusting his cuffs. “I’m making eggs for breakfast. Does that work for you?”
I nod. “Y-yes.”
“How do you take them?”
“Scrambled.” Like my brain.
I get up, but don’t shower. No point to do it now if I’m going to haul boxes all day.
I wash my face and get changed in the downstairs bathroom, picking comfy clothes from a box and bringing up my flannels and the toothbrush I forgot last night.
I shove the pajamas under the pillow. And I don’t know what Liam’s policy is on making the bed, if the housekeeper does it for him, but I do it myself, folding the extra comforter on my side.
By the time I walk into the kitchen, hair wrestled into a ponytail, the air is thick with the hiss of butter and the steam of coffee.
Liam is at the stove, his suit jacket draped over a stool, the shirt sleeves rolled up to expose his forearms. He plates a fluffy mound of yellow eggs and slides it across the island toward me, along with a piece of toast.
“Mmm,” I moan my appreciation.
“So.” He leans against the counter, sipping coffee, watching me eat with unnerving focus. “I thought you should take the week off to get settled before we get started on the job search. But send me your CV anyway, and I’ll start brainstorming.”
“Yes, boss.”
He drops the mug in the sink and lifts his hands.
“Just trying to be helpful.” He rolls down his sleeves and shrugs the jacket on like he’s closing a runway show in Milan.
“Mrs. Gable will arrive at nine, she’ll be happy to help you sort through your boxes.
The empty side of the closet is yours; it should fit everything.
If you need groceries, give her a list. She’ll get whatever you want. ”
I nod, poking at my eggs. “Do you always have staff doing your shopping?”
“Only when I’m busy.” He adjusts his tie in the reflection of the stainless-steel fridge. When he’s satisfied, he turns and drops a set of spare keys on the island next to my plate. “The alarm code is 4492. I’ll be home by eight. Call me if you need anything.”
He’s rattling off instructions like a CEO briefing a subordinate, efficient and detached.
And then he’s gone. The heavy front door clicks shut, sealing me into this ginormous glass house.
“Bye, honey,” I yell to the emptiness. “Have a nice day.”
I go get my phone and call Emma.
She picks up on the first ring. “Ghost me again and we’re going to have a problem.”
“Sorry, I was exhausted last night.”
“Mmm, okay. Tell me everything,” she demands. “Start with the bedroom situation.”
“It’s for appearances. His housekeeper would notice if we slept in separate rooms.”
“But how was it?” Emma presses. “Sleeping next to him? I did some research, your husband is a hottie.”
I rub my forehead. “It was nothing. We read a book, and we fell asleep. We woke up, and he left for work.”
“You spent the night with Mr. Hot CEO and you just… slept?”
I think of waking up wrapped around Liam, my body seeking his heat even in my sleep. My face flushes. “It’s not like that.”
“You’re not affected at all?”
Images of him in a towel assault me. The water droplets. The low V of muscles. His hipbones. When did hipbones become that sexy?
I hate that my best friend calls all my bullshit.
“No. I mean, he’s…” I struggle for a neutral descriptor that isn’t “sculpted by the gods” or “sex on legs,” no matter if one is injured. “He’s fit…”
“Fit?” Emma cackles. “That’s British for ‘I would climb him like a tree.’”
“I wouldn’t—”
“Remember, I saw pictures of him.”
“Even if I would, which I wouldn’t, it doesn’t matter. Ours is an arrangement—”
The doorbell rings, interrupting me.
“Gotta go,” I say. “The housekeeper is here.”
Emma lets me go after about a million recommendations to tread carefully and warnings that we might be married, but we’re still total strangers.
I swear on my firstborn to be careful, end the call, and get the door.
When I open it, I’m greeted by a smiling woman in her fifties with silver-streaked brown hair and laugh lines around her eyes. She’s wearing jeans and a cardigan, not the stern uniform I expected.
“You must be Peyton.” She beams at me and pulls me into a warm hug. “I’m Alice. I was thrilled when Liam called me. Finally, that boy has some sense!”
She releases me, still smiling, and bustles past, collecting several bags of groceries from the front step.
“Let me help you with those,” I say, relieving her of the heaviest ones.
“Thank you, dear. Let’s set them on the counter.” Alice heads for the kitchen, chatting as she walks. “I’ve been taking care of this house since Liam built it. Such a beautiful place, but it needed a woman’s touch. Do you cook?”
“A little,” I admit, following her. “Nothing fancy.”
“I leave meals ready for Liam, but I can do whatever you prefer. If you’d rather make them yourself, I’ll stay out of your way—”
“Oh, no, please. I’m sure you’re a much better chef than I am. And I’ll be starting work soon, anyway.” I help her unpack the groceries—fresh vegetables, fruits, meats, cheeses. House necessities. She even got me tampons.
“Well, if you ever want to learn a few tricks, I’d be happy to teach you. Nothing beats a home-cooked meal.”
I like her.
“I’d love that.”
“Wonderful. Now, Liam said you needed help to get settled in?”
We spend the next few hours unpacking my life.
Alice is chatty but not intrusive, helping me hang clothes in the closet and find new homes for my personal items. As we work, she sings the praises of Blue Crescent Harbor, telling me about the adorable shops and people and assuring me I’ll love it here.
The bakery on Main Street has the most amazing sourdough, but I’m not supposed to tell the folks at the general store.
The local gym, Gym and Tonic, has been completely renovated, and I should get a membership.
A Slice of Heaven serves the best pizza in the state.
And if I want live music and a bit of fun, I need to go to the Moonshine, the town’s dive bar.
She also mentions about a thousand festivals and events I’ll have to patronize as a member of one of the five founding families.
She gives me a list of names and titles, but I recognize and remember only Lila’s.
Alice leaves around one, after we pre-cooked a chicken roulade for dinner and sorted through about a third of my stuff. I have the scraps of the roulade for lunch, not caring that I’ll eat it again tonight. It’s delicious.
After eating, I unpack a few more boxes on my own, but my energy is gone. My skin is coated in sweat, and I need a hot bath. I trudge upstairs, strip off my dusty clothes, and soak in the water until it gets cold twice over.
I step into the “hers” side of the closet to search for leggings.
I don’t remember unpacking any this morning, but maybe Alice did.
The closet is the size of a second bedroom—I’m going to need a map to find anything in here—but despite all this square footage, my sweats are nowhere to be found.
My comfortable house clothes must still be downstairs in one of the sealed boxes.
It’s early, just after four. Liam won’t be home for hours. I pull on a pair of panties but don’t bother with a bra. I’ll run down, grab what I need, and come back up before anyone sees me.
I pad down the stairs, the cool air raising goosebumps across my bare skin. The house is silent and empty. I’m sorting through boxes in the living room, searching for the one with my yoga pants and oversized sweats, when a key turns in the front door lock.
Crap. I’m on the opposite side to the stairs. I bolt for the hallway and crash past the first door I find—Liam’s study. I pull it closed with agonizing slowness, the latch catching just as Liam calls out, “Babe? You home?”
Babe? Who the heck does he think he’s talking to?
“I’m home early,” he yells.
Yeah, no shit. I’m about to hoot back for him to close his eyes so I can scurry upstairs when a deeper voice responds, “Isn’t your wife home?”
“I don’t know, Dad,” Liam replies, sounding irritated. “I’m not her keeper.”
Oh, gosh, he’s with his father.
I glance down at myself in horror. No way I’m shouting for both Rockwoods to please close their eyes while I move past practically naked. I’d die of shame.
“What was so important that you had to talk to both of us and couldn’t do it at the office?” Liam asks.
Charles’s voice is muffled but clear enough. “Delicate matters are better discussed in the privacy of the home, and it’s about both of you. But since your wife isn’t here, we’ll start without her.”
“Okay,” Liam says after a pause. “Let’s go into the study.”
Of course they’d come into the one room where I’m playing naked hide and seek.
Fuck my life.