7. Ember
SEVEN
EMBER
On Saturday morning, Jack and I celebrated our sixth day of marriage by pretending to be infatuated with each other at the local diner.
I sat in a plastic booth across from him, waiting for my egg white omelet to arrive while I sipped weak black tea that tasted like it had sat on a shelf in the kitchen and collected dust for ten years, feeling the curious gazes of all the elderly patrons turning our way. The back of my neck prickled.
The only customers—other than me and Jack—who were below the age of seventy were two mildly scary looking biker guys in leather jackets.
The backs of their leather vests each had a flaming skull on them.
The Reapers, the local biker gang. Apparently outlaw bikers also needed pancakes sometimes.
They’d glanced at us when we walked in but didn’t seem interested in our fake romance.
Jack was better at pretending than I was. He grinned at me above the rim of his white ceramic coffee mug, wicked eyes sparkling in the midmorning light. “If you keep looking at me like I’m the kind of guy who enjoys kicking puppies, you’ll hurt my feelings,” Jack murmured.
“I know nothing of your puppy-kicking proclivities, so I can’t comment on that.”
The glimmer in his eyes intensified as his lips curled ever so slightly. He looked like he was having fun, which was great for our audience. He was really selling it. “Imagine I’m the guy who saved you from the guy kicking your puppy. That’ll help.”
“First of all, why is someone kicking my puppy? I don’t like that image.”
“Of course you don’t like it. Only a monster would kick a puppy.”
“And you came along and saved me.” I arched a brow. “How?”
“I punched him in the jaw. Knocked him out.”
“Solving violence with more violence. We all know that doesn’t work.”
“Would you rather I sit him down and ask him what went wrong in his childhood to make him the way he is?”
“That might be more interesting.”
“By then, your puppy has run away.”
“This puppy’s having a hard day,” I noted. “What kind of puppy is this? Where did I get it? Is it a rescue? Why would it run away from me instead of running to me?”
Jack’s smile widened. “Let’s get back to what’s important. Me saving you from the bad guy. You looking up at me with an expression that says you’ll do anything to thank me.”
“Anything, huh.”
“I’ve got a few ideas if you’re struggling to think of something.” His smile turned wolfish, his voice dropping low. The sound of it was like a caress.
I flushed hot from head to toe. “I can’t believe this usually works for you,” I said, reaching for my cup. “And judging by the women who have accosted us while we’re out and about, it works so well that they come back for more.”
“You don’t know what you’re missing, Ember.”
“Ha.” I took a sip, then set my mug down and stared out the window.
What, exactly, was I doing with my life right now?
This whole endeavor was not like me. Maybe I was just a soft-hearted fool who didn’t want Etta to be disappointed in Jack and Darby.
Maybe I was enjoying the domesticity of school drop-offs, dinners, and homework with a sassy teenager a little too much to give them up right away.
Or maybe I was a human woman who enjoyed the attentions of an attractive man.
It seemed obvious when I thought about it logically, but I still found myself astonished at my own desires.
I’d never felt so strong a pull toward someone before.
I’d never been so easily led by devilish eyes and teasing smiles.
I knew he was a player. I knew his way of doing things was to charm his way into—and out of—trouble. I knew it, and I was still taken by him. I still wanted him to look at me. Smile at me. Laugh at the inane things that came out of my mouth when I was around him.
Dear God. I wanted him to like me.
“So tell me about the glamorous world of actuaries,” Jack said, his spoon clinking against the white ceramic mug as he stirred another little jug of cream into his coffee.
At this point, it was more cream than coffee.
His gaze flicked up to meet mine, that tempting smile playing at the corners of his lips.
“You work long hours, but you could be doing anything up there.”
I scrambled to throw my walls up and told myself I was unaffected by the way he looked at me, because I enjoyed living in a state of permanent denial. “It involves a lot of math and spreadsheets,” I replied, touching my utensils to straighten them out while I waited for my food.
“I do like a woman who knows her way around a spreadsheet,” Jack noted. The word “spreadsheet” sounded downright lewd on his tongue.
And why did my stomach knot at the sound of it? Why did it feel like that smile was just for me, instead of what I knew for the truth—that it was a smile Jack deployed like a weapon when he wanted to demolish resistance in whatever conquest he had in his sights?
Why didn’t I ask the more salient question, which was: Why on earth was he pointing it at me?
I wasn’t one of his conquests. I was his wife, and the bounds of our relationship were very clearly set out in the two contracts we’d signed.
One written by his grandmother’s lawyer, and one written by mine.
He didn’t need to look at me like that. We could convince people we were together without all this rigamarole.
So why was he doing it? Just for everyone else’s benefit? Or because he couldn’t help himself?
I ignored his smile—and my reaction to it—and continued answering his original question. “I mostly work as a consultant for insurance companies. I quantify risk so they can set premiums based on the likelihood of something happening.”
“What’s the biggest risk of our situation right now?
” He leaned back as his eyebrow twitched at the question.
He was still wearing that smile, and if I hadn’t known it was a mask, I might’ve thought he was enjoying himself.
But men like Jack Mars did not enjoy meals with women like me when the topic of conversation was quantifying risk.
I glanced around the diner, then through the windows at the road outside.
The diner was set back from the road, just on the edge of the town limits.
Rain pattered on the open lot, beading on the old cars and the two motorcycles parked near the diner.
The sky was overcast, and a distant roll of thunder was just audible over the noises of the restaurant.
Looking at Jack again, I said, “The biggest risk we’ve faced today is the same as most other days of our lives.” I nodded to the road. “The drive to and from our destination.”
“Thank God we made it safely,” he replied. “Now let’s hope we survive the food.”
We leaned back as the waitress put our plates down. Egg white omelet with whole-grain bread for me; sausage, bacon, and fried eggs for him. I decided not to tell him about the health effects of eating trans fats and kept my eyes on my plate.
“Thank you, Marge,” Jack said to the waitress. She was a round, soft-looking woman of about fifty, her ruddy cheeks curving as she gave us a friendly smile. The way she handled the plates let me know she’d probably been serving at this diner since she was Darby’s age.
“Enjoy,” she said. “I’ll come warm up your coffee in a sec. You two lovebirds need anything else?”
I flinched at the comment, then jerked when a big hand slid over my own. My body locked up, and all I could do was stare at the way his palm dwarfed mine and how warm he was—a warmth that seemed to spread out from my hand and rush through the rest of me, coalescing somewhere between my thighs.
“We’re all good,” Jack answered, squeezing my hand slightly as if to tell me to loosen the hell up.
“I have to say, Jack,” Marge said, smiling down at him, “it’s wonderful to see you with a good woman. You deserve happiness, after everything you’ve been through.”
It was Jack’s turn to stiffen. I wondered if Marge noticed it, subtle as his reaction was. It was only a slight tenseness in the hand that covered mine. A tiny tightening around his eyes. A momentary slip of the smile that graced his lips.
What had he been through? It must’ve been to do with Darby’s mom. Curiosity dug its claws into me, and I slowly pried them out, one by one. In two or three weeks, we’d be officially married, and I’d be on my way out of here. Whatever experiences had made Jack Jack were none of my business.
A second later, he recovered, and he looked once more like the Jack Mars that was charming and unruffled. “Thank you, Marge. That means a lot.”
The waitress turned to me. “I heard about what you did at the medical center. You can’t fake that kind of thing, you know.
Throwing yourself in harm’s way to make sure someone you care about doesn’t get hurt.
And to do it for a man you met that morning!
” She touched her chest and shook her head.
“I wasn’t sure about Etta’s plans. Thought she was crazy for hiring that computer guy to make that algorithm to find the perfect wives.
But you can’t deny the evidence of your eyes and ears, can you?
There’s gotta be something to it, because look at the two of you! ”
My smile felt forced, and I was sure it looked like a grimace. “I’m as surprised as you are,” I said, and caught the movement of Jack’s head as he threw a glance my way. When I flicked my gaze to meet his, he looked like he was on the verge of laughing.
Marge smiled and left us to our meals. She came by a minute later to refill our cups, winked, and left us be.
Jack’s hand still covered mine. I stared at it, then at him. Slowly, he pulled it away, then picked up his utensils and began to eat.
We finished our daily public appearance, paid, then walked out of the diner.
Jack’s hand drifted to my lower back as he guided me through the door, the perfect gentleman in front of all those prying eyes.
All for show, of course—even as the touch of his palm on my lower back made all my awareness focus on him.
On the breadth of his shoulders as he angled his body toward me.
The way the light glinted on his hair. The look he slid my way as we made it outside.
After this, I would avoid attractive men entirely.
Being in the car was worse. The close quarters.
The scent of him. The easy, confident way he drove.
The sight of his forearms when he pushed up his sleeves, and the way the knuckles and tendons of his hands flexed as he gripped the steering wheel and the gear shift.
I had to physically turn toward my window to stop my gaze from continually drifting toward him.
I was no better than all those other women.
Then his phone rang through the car’s Bluetooth speakers, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. The name “Knox” appeared on the screen, and I knew it was one of his brothers.
“Yeah?” Jack asked when he’d pressed a button to answer.
“The Blanchard property alerted,” a deep voice replied.
“Again?”
“System’s offline.”
“Completely?”
“We got nothing. Seems like a hardware issue. We need to go on-site to check.”
Jack swore. “Blanchard’s already unhappy with us. We can’t keep having issues, or he’ll find another security company to hire.”
“He didn’t sound too pleased,” Knox answered in a low rumble.
“He called you himself?” Jack asked, hands gripping the steering wheel a little tighter. “I’m not far. I’ll go check it out.” He hung up the phone and glanced at me. “You mind if we make a detour?”
Staying in the car with Jack was a terrible idea.
In order to survive the next three weeks, I had to remain as far away from him and his daughter as possible.
But it sounded like an emergency, and I didn’t want to be the reason Jack lost a client.
I found myself shrugging, and I heard the words, “That’s fine,” come out of my mouth before I could hold them back.
Jack flashed me a grateful smile, and I told myself my stomach clenched because I’d eaten too much. “Thanks,” he said, and did a quick U-turn to point us in what I guessed was the direction of the Blanchard property.
JACK
As we drove, I realized I was happy to have gotten the call from Knox: It meant I’d have another hour with Ember before we went our separate ways for the day.
I just wished she didn’t flinch every time I touched her. Wished I knew why she held herself back so much. Wished I were the man who got to see her come undone.
Wrenching my thoughts away from that dangerous path—showing up to an important client’s house with a tent in my pants was not a good look—I shifted in my seat and stole a glance at my wife.
She stared at the rainy, rolling forest like it held all of life’s secrets.
Her blond hair was pulled back as usual, her hands folded on her lap.
She wore one of those pencil skirts again, and the fabric stretched over her thighs.
I hadn’t been able to keep my eyes off the movement of her hips all morning.
The way the skirt framed that heart-shaped ass.
It fell to a modest below-the-knee length, but it looked indecent.
I wondered if she did it on purpose, and decided she had no idea.
She was so prim. So deliciously uptight.
So very out of my league.
Maybe if I kept telling myself that I shouldn’t want her, I’d stop feeling this incessant ache in my gut. I’d stop dreaming of her. I’d stop wrapping my hand around my cock and thinking of her hair splayed over my pillow, her lips parted on my name, her eyes hazy with pleasure.
I was losing my mind. She’d be gone the minute that wedding certificate was filed at Town Hall. This had to stop.