23. Beau #2
“Oh, sleeping arrangements are coming next, don’t you worry about that.”
I can’t wait for that argument, especially if it ends up with us in any of the four beds at my house. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. While I’d be more than happy to stay here, can I offer justification for why my house is the better option?”
“Fine,” she says as she falls back into the seat, crossing her arms over her chest. “Explain your case.”
“For one, I have the bigger house,” I say, suddenly wishing I’d made a PowerPoint for this. I feel like slides would give it some extra oomph. “And while you don’t think I have headboards, I do. For every bed—none smaller than a queen—in every one of the four bedrooms.”
“But I have the better sheets,” she interrupts.
“How do you know about my sheets?”
“Really? You have good sheets? What man has good sheets?”
“Me,” I say, leaning in, needing to throw her off. “One hundred percent bamboo viscose, best for hot sleepers to keep you cool. And if I remember correctly, you do run a little hot in the night.”
The fire in her eyes right now is either because she wants to punch me or fuck me. I really hope the latter.
“Plus, I have a full gym with every piece of equipment you could ask for. And if I don’t have it, I’ll get it for you.
No questions. That way you can continue to strengthen that shoulder and never have to leave the house.
And did I mention my sauna? And cold plunge?
Perfect for those hard days of working out when you need some extra rehab. ”
“I have a gym,” she defends, but the lack of bite to her words lets me know I’m breaking her down.
“But do you have a state-of-the art golf simulator? Ideal for those cold or rainy Nashville days when you can’t get on the course. Wouldn’t you like one of those, Belle?”
Some women would have been impressed with the sheets. Others would have moved in at the mention of a sauna, gym, or the swimming pool I didn’t even bring up. But no. I know how to talk dirty to my wife, and those words are golf simulator.
“You play dirty, Devereaux.”
“I know,” I say, resisting the urge to kiss her nose because she looks damn adorable right now pretending she isn’t looking forward to the amenities my house offers.
“But I want you to make it yours. I had my home decorated to fit me, but I want you to feel comfortable. Bring everything you want and need. Pictures. Clothes. Your weird green face stuff. And if you don’t have it and want it, let me know. It’s yours.”
She lets out a defeated sigh. “I'm not selling this house.”
I shake my head. “I wouldn’t expect you to. If anyone asks, we say we’re keeping it for now and will one day decide what to do with the property. Until then, we’re settling into married life.”
“I need to start practicing saying things like ‘married life’ without making a face,” she says, which makes me laugh.
“I bet you can do it. Try it. For me.”
“Ma—marr—married—” she stops and overexaggerates a face like she’s going to be sick.
“Faker,” I say as I tickle her side. “Come on, Belle. You can do it.”
The tone changes as we lock eyes. She softens a bit, and it doesn’t even come with a double blink. I feel like that’s a win in itself.
“Married life. With my husband. Beau Devereaux.”
“See. That wasn’t hard.” Except every word came out like she was unsure she was speaking the right language.
“One more question.”
“Shoot.”
Her eyes turn a little sad, and I don’t know if she consciously does it, but she seeks out my hand.
She’s not holding it, but she’s staring at my fingers, playing with them.
I don’t want to point it out. Hell, I don’t want to do anything to scare her.
Instead, I’m going to listen to every word she says, and bask in the feel of her unexpected touch.
“How long do we do this? Is this our life now?”
The question takes me by surprise. “I… I hadn’t thought about that.”
“I know I’m not much of a dater, so it’s not like this is going to intrude on my thriving personal life…
” Shelby trails off, still not looking at me, still choosing to focus on our fingers.
“But this can’t be our life. No one wants to be in a relationship, let alone a marriage, that is only for convenience.
We have to know when this is going to end. It’s only fair. To both of us.”
I don’t know how to answer, because the thought of this having an end date never crossed my mind. Though, in my defense, I was more worried about getting her to say yes to this than figuring out a time frame.
“I guess we just go until this doesn’t work anymore.”
“Really?” Shelby appears to be shocked by my words. “You’re going to be okay with not dating or having sex for an unknown amount of time?”
“Whoa! Who said anything about no sex?”
I’m joking—partly.
“No sex, Beau. What happened in Vegas needs to stay there.”
“Counterpoint,” I say, holding up a finger for emphasis. “We also got married in Vegas, and that didn’t stay there.”
She playfully shoves me away, simultaneously trying to keep a grin off her face. “I’m being serious. This is hard enough without complicating it by having sex.”
I don’t concede that point—partly because I can still taste her on my lips and I’m jonesing for another taste—and choose instead to go back to her original question.
“Contrary to your belief, Shelby, I don’t date.”
“Really? Since I moved in I’ve counted at least eight women leaving here before the sun was up.”
“Were you spying on me, Belle?”
“No,” she says rather defensively. “I happen to notice things when I go out to the driving range.”
“I’ll let you go with that,” I say, fighting back a smile.
“But I will confirm that I don’t date. If you did see anyone leaving here, which I promise you was not eight, they weren’t anyone of importance.
No crazy exes. I scratch itches. Find companionship when I feel like it. That’s it. Nothing more, nothing less.”
She starts to ask something, but she brings it back.
Whatever it was, I don’t think it was what she says next, but I’m not about to push her.
Not tonight. “So then, how long does this last? Also, are we telling anyone what’s actually happened?
I mean, none of our friends or your family are going to believe we got married because we love each other. ”
We both start laughing at that. “Can you imagine if we tried to tell them our fighting was a ruse the whole time?”
“I can, and I think it would kill your poor mother,” Shelby says. “Gabi would disown both of us for what we put her through.”
“Exactly, which is why we only tell the people we can trust. My parents. Gabi and Maddox. And Theo and Asher.”
“Are they good guys?”
“The best,” I say. “But other than them—and of course Ethan, Kat, and Grayson—no one knows. To the rest of the world? We’re Mr. and Mrs. Beau Devereaux, blissful newlyweds.”
“Blech,” Shelby says, pretending to throw up. “You have to know I’m not taking your name.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I say. “You just have to pretend to be in love with me.”
“You mean the hardest part of all this.”
I know she doesn’t mean it as a dig—and I do need to remember it was just last week that she legitimately hated me—but I need her to focus on the bigger picture, and how this might not be as hard as she’s making it.
“I know our past isn’t helping, or the situation we’ve found ourselves in, but think about it.
We're about to begin our seasons. Most weeks we're on the road, and a lot of the time we won’t even be in the same state. Some weeks I'm going to be here while you’re away, and vice versa. We just need to know our company lines and stay true to the bit. If we're in public, we hold hands. In case there’s a stray camera, we leave no doubt that we’re two people who love each other.
“And then, after the season, we reevaluate.
If we think we're in the clear, we end it.
We come out with a joint statement that says, while we care for each other, our schedules aren't conducive to a long-term relationship.
That we wish each other the best, and we go our separate ways.
And if the end of the season comes and we can't separate, then it's one day at a time.”
She lets that sink in, and just when I think I have her fully convinced, she throws me with one more statement.
“You said we have to pretend to be in love. But what I’m worried about is something bigger.”
I think back to what I said, pretty sure I hit all the big parts. “What’s that?”
“That we have to get along.”
“Oh, I think we get along.” I lean in closer, letting that floral perfume take over my senses. “In fact, I think we get along very…very…well.”
My flirting falls flat as all I get in return is a raised eyebrow. But I do see a hint of a smile, which I’ll take. “I hate you.”
I laugh and pat her leg as I stand up. “No you don’t. Now pack your stuff, wife. It’s time to move in with your husband.”