by C L Cruz
The magistrate—an old man who looks at me like he whole-heartedly disapproves of every decision I’ve ever made—has us stand in front of his desk as he recites the vows. We repeat after him dutifully and exchange rings—two simple golden bands.
“You may now kiss your bride,” the magistrate says, snapping closed the book he was reading from and sitting down to sign the paperwork.
I wrap one hand around Quinn’s waist and pull her against me.
She blinks her long eyelashes at me. “You don’t have to—”
I don’t let her finish. Instead, I press my lips to hers. One of her hands comes up and grabs my bicep, squeezing, and she parts her lips. My tongue sweeps through her mouth. She tastes like mint, and I can picture her brushing her teeth in the public restroom before getting here. It makes me smile, and the spell is broken as she takes that as her cue to pull away. Her clerk friend claps and hands back Quinn’s phone before signing the marriage certificate as a witness.
As we walk back through the courthouse, everyone who sees us congratulates us. Outside, Quinn is clearly uncomfortable as she stands about an arm’s length away from me and shifts back and forth on her feet.
“Well, then, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow at the office,” she says.
My brow furrows. “What do you mean?”
“Well, I mean…”
“We’re married now.” I clear the space between us and tuck her under one arm, walking her toward the parking deck. “We have to make it look real just in case my dad tries to contest it. You’re moving in with me.”
♦ ♦ ♦
The movers I hired make quick work of Quinn’s apartment while Quinn talks to the realtor I hired about renting the space out. I guess that makes sense since the marriage is only temporary, after all, but for some reason, the thought of her leaving me makes me frown. I’ve gotten so used to having her at work that the idea of having her in my home, too, just seems right. My house on the river could use her touch.
After I pay the movers and shut the door behind them, Quinn and I stand and stare at her boxes in the foyer—mostly just clothes and shoes and other personal items. A lot of her furniture stayed in the apartment.
“Well,” she says. “Do you want me in the spare room?”
I shake my head at her. “You’ll be in the master. With me.”
“No one can see us here,” she says. “We don’t have to pretend.”
My mouth twists to one side. “It’s not all pretend. I enjoy spending time with you.”
After several trips, we move the boxes to my bedroom—our bedroom, now, I guess. We collapse side by side on the foot of my bed, and I notice for the first time that Quinn looks exhausted. She hasn’t even changed out of her dress, and now it’s smudged with dust. I’ll have to make sure it goes out with my dry cleaning.
“I guess I’ll get started on putting this away,” she says.
“Tina can do it when she gets here tomorrow.”
“Tina?”
“My—Our housekeeper.”
She blinks at me, looking a little stunned, though I can’t imagine why.
“Want to take a long soak in the tub before bed?” I remember the night before in her apartment—her robe and wet hair. I had probably interrupted a bath. I hadn’t cared at the time, but now, I want her to relax. She seems so tense.
Her eyes light up. “Have you seen your tub?”
I laugh. “Of course, I have.” It’s a jacuzzi tub with strong jets, big enough for two people. As tempting as it is, though, I won’t be joining her. “And it’s your tub now.”
While she runs the water, I open a bottle of wine and pour her a glass. When I return to the bathroom, she’s standing in that same silky robe, apparently having dug it out of a box. Her dress is on a hanger near the door. She hasn’t seen me yet, and when she bends over to check the water temperature, the robe rides up, revealing the bottom curve of her ass. It’s just begging for my hand, but I keep myself under control and knock lightly on the door to announce myself.
“Oh.” She turns, clutching the robe tighter around herself.
“Here.” I offer her the glass.
She takes it, and I show her the controls to the bath while she sips at her drink. I’m sure she can figure it out, but I’m reluctant to leave. The way she smiles at me, I think she knows. Suddenly, she’s smooth and sexy, and I’m some awkward schoolboy. Even though we’ve known each other for years, everything about this—about her—feels so wonderfully new.
I close the door, leaving her to her bath. I’m determined to wait up for her, but as I lie in bed, my eyes—which are glued to the bathroom door—begin to drift shut. I wake up only briefly when I feel her climb into bed beside me. When I reach over to pull her close, I find that she’s built a pillow wall between us. I grab each pillow and deliberately throw them to the floor. She makes a small yelp of protest when I drag her across the bed, tuck her against me, and fall asleep with her wet hair on my face.
Chapter Four
Quinn
The last couple of days have been a whirlwind. Normally, I am in complete control of every minute of my day, but suddenly I’m at Weston’s whim, and I have no idea what’s happening. First, I’m getting married. Then, I’m kissing him. And finally, I’m renting out my apartment and moving in with him. Into his bedroom. His huge, dark, man-cave of a bedroom with the biggest, softest bed I’ve ever slept in. I could practically be in a romance novel. Except…I have to keep reminding myself that this isn’t romantic. This is for his convenience.
I’m doing him a favor.
And honestly, when he comes back in from his morning run with no shirt on, he’s doing me a favor. I had some idea of what was hiding beneath his button-down shirts, but seeing the rippling muscles and hard abs bare and in person is a whole other experience. He could be on the cover of a romance novel.
He catches me staring at him over my cereal and flashes me one of those mega-watt grins. “Good morning.” He chugs a glass of water and then pours coffee into an over-sized mug. “I didn’t want to wake you this morning, but if you want to run with me, I’ll get you up tomorrow.”
I almost laugh. I would occasionally make it to the apartment gym, but there was more reading, talking, and casual walking in a temperature-controlled environment than running. Just one of the ways we’re incompatible.
Standing, I take my cereal bowl to the sink and drop it in. “I’ll go get ready. Are we riding to work together?” I hadn’t even begun to think about how we would handle this at work. Usually, I get in before him to get things organized. Not to mention the office gossip will be out of control.
He smiles at me over his coffee mug. “We’re not going to work.”
“What do you mean?” I can’t remember a single day when Weston hasn’t been at the office.
“Well, I realized last night that people usually take a honeymoon, and you deserve one. We can’t go anywhere big, but I scheduled us for some spa treatments at Vitality.”
I gape at him—I seem to do that a lot, but seriously, talking to him is like being on a roller coaster in the dark. Vitality is an exclusive getaway on the edge of the city, beloved by the rich, and costs almost five-figures for a deluxe treatment. “You don’t have to do that,” I say.
He cocks his head at me. “You keep saying that. But being married to me has its perks.” He drains his coffee and puts the cup in the sink with my bowl. “Go get dressed. We’ll leave in thirty.”
As he walks away, I call after him, “I don’t know what to wear to Vitality.”
He raises his eyebrows at me over his shoulder. “Doesn’t matter. You’ll just be taking it off.” And then he disappears into the bathroom.
♦ ♦ ♦
Vitality is an estate on several acres that used to belong to a wealthy family but was sold when they went bankrupt. Investors bought the mansion and the surrounding land and turned it into the kind of place that caters to the kind of people it used to house. I’m in awe of it
from the moment we pull through the gates. Everything is so peaceful—it’s hard to believe there’s a bustling city just a few minutes away. I can see why people love it so much.
First, we have foot treatments, followed by facials and manicures. While Weston doesn’t seem like the guy to enjoy these types of things, he takes it all in stride, even asking for cucumbers to put on his eyes. I find myself smiling at him a lot. It’s refreshing to be with someone confident enough to ask for exactly what they want. He’s never embarrassed, never ashamed. In the office, it often gets called arrogance, and sometimes it’s annoying. But right now, it’s endearing. Maybe even lovable.
Everything is going great until the massage therapists show us to the couples’ massage room and leave us to get undressed. Together. I stand across the room from Weston and stare as he slips his shirt off over his head and then steps out of his shoes. As he starts to unbuckle his pants, he freezes, seeing me looking.
“What?” he asks.
“I need to undress.”
“So, get undressed.”
Like I said—clueless.
With a small chuckle, he turns around. I do the same, stepping quickly out of my clothes, feeling like any second, he’s going to turn back around and get an eyeful. I glance over my shoulder to make sure he’s not looking before I step out of my underwear and go still. His tan back ripples with muscles, tapering into a narrow waist and a firm, round ass above strong legs. As big as he is, he moves gracefully as he folds his clothes.
“Are you peeking?” he asks.
I jerk my eyes away. “No,” I lie, sliding into a terrycloth robe and belting it around my waist. When I turn back around, he’s already face-down on the massage table, a sheet draped languidly over his lower half. I’ve never been jealous of a sheet before.
He rests his chin on his folded hands. “Now what?”
I study my table right beside his and wonder how I’m going to maneuver myself onto it and get out of the robe without flashing him the goods.
Weston smirks at my predicament, one corner of his mouth lifting. “I won’t look. Scout’s honor.”
I peer over at him. “Were you a Scout?”
His answering grin tells me all I need to know. He expects me to balk, to beg. But two can play this game. He thinks I’m practical and conservative, and I am—in the office. We’re not in the office now, though. In fact, we’re married, and shouldn’t even a marriage of convenience be a little fun? What if this is the only honeymoon I ever get?
So, without taking my eyes off of my husband, I untie the belt on my robe and let it fall open. Then, I slide it off over my shoulders and let it fall to the ground. The smile melts off of his mouth as his eyes drop to my bare breasts and then lower, to the auburn curls between my legs. Even though my skin pebbles under the sensual brush of his gaze, I pretend not to notice. Instead, I casually pull back the sheet and climb onto my own table. When I’m in place, I make it a point not to look at him so he can’t see the heat I’m sure is apparent on my cheeks.
There’s a knock on the door and the massage therapists enter then, and Weston and I don’t speak again. All I can think about though, even as the therapist works out the knots in my shoulders with her knuckles, is the way Weston looked at me. There’s something new between us. He’s not the perfect romantic hero, but he’s unapologetically himself. He goes after what he wants without even thinking that he might not get it, and the way he looked at me, and the way he pulled me against him last night, and the way he kissed me in the courthouse…make me think that what he wants might just be me.
When the massage is over, the therapists leave us alone to dress again. I grab my robe quickly, sliding into it, a lot of my earlier bravado having disappeared with the tension in my muscles.
With my back still to Weston to give him privacy, I say, “Thank you for today.”
“Of course,” he says, his voice closer than I expect. “You deserve it.”
I turn around to see what he’s doing only to find him right behind me. He has on his silk boxers but nothing else. His hands grab my hips, bunching up the robe around them, and pull me against him. Our mouths crash together in a hard, hungry kiss. Before I realize what they’re doing, my fingers are winding through his thick, brown hair, my nails scraping against his scalp. His tongue chases mine, and his hands explore the curve of my waist, dropping to my ass. The feel of his arousal against me makes heat pool between my legs and I let out a small moan.
There’s a knock on the door. “Ready?” our host calls.
In a flurry, I push Weston away and wipe my mouth. “Almost,” I yell back when it’s clear he isn’t going to answer. Then, quieter, I say, “We should go.”
He nods decisively. “You’re right. We have dinner with my mother. Don’t want to be late.”
My eyes go wide. “We have what?”
Leaning down, he plants a kiss on my forehead before reaching for his clothes to get dressed. “Don’t worry,” he says nonchalantly. “I’m sure she’ll love you.”
For a fake marriage, this sure is starting to feel real.
Chapter Five
Weston
I can tell Quinn is nervous, and that makes me like her even more—the fact that she cares what my mom thinks. Not a lot of women in my circles do. When my father left my mother, she became sort of a social pariah, a laughingstock. But I’ve always stood by her side, and Quinn is unwaveringly loyal and kind, another rarity among the upper class. I can’t imagine her caring about wealth or marital status.
In an effort to calm her nerves, I take Quinn’s hand as we walk up the sidewalk to my mother’s front door. She’s made smart investments over the years, and while she doesn’t live in a mansion on River Street anymore, she does live in a nice, three-story townhouse in South Square.
Quinn’s eyes scan the brick facade. She looks beautiful in a simple dress a few shades darker than her pale skin. The way it clings to her curves serves only to remind me of the glimpse she’d given me of her naked body before our massage. If she’d been any other woman, I would have kicked the massage therapists out and ravaged her then and there. But Quinn is important to me, and I need to be careful not to ruin what we have, especially before we take my father to court.
Quinn tugs me to a stop. “Does she know?”
With a small chuckle, I say, “Mom knows everything.” I’d called my mom on the way to Quinn’s before the proposal to tell her what my father had done.
After her initial shock, she’d said, “Don’t you hurt that girl, Wes. You’ve said nothing but glowing things about her for years. Don’t you break her heart.”
When I’d told her that our hearts had nothing to do with it, she’d laughed, called me a foolish boy, and hung up on me. She’s the only person with the balls to ever do that.
“So, she knows we’re not really married?” she tries to clarify.
I frown down at her. “We are really married.”
She sighs like I’m the dumbest person in the world, which makes me think she probably has the balls to call me names and hang up on me, too, though that remains to be seen. “She knows you don’t want to be, right? She knows you don’t love me and you’re just going through the motions to get paid?”
That’s too much to unpack right now, so I answer truthfully. “She knows about the contract, yes.”
Before Quinn can ask anything else, the door swings open and my mom is smiling down at us. She is the epitome of an eccentric old rich lady, with a poof of white-gray hair, colorful pantsuits, and too many rings on her bony fingers.
She holds her arms out wide. “You didn’t tell me she was a redhead!”
Still holding hands, we climb the stairs.
I kiss her on her cheeks. “Good to see you, Mom.”
Quinn doesn’t hesitate to drop my hand and hug her. “It’s so good to meet you.”
“I’ve been watching for you. It’s so wonderful to meet you, too.” They hook arms like old friends and precede me into the hou
se.
Dinner is delicious and painless. My mother made spaghetti—basically, the only meal she knows how to make, but she makes it well. We drink lots of wine and talk easily. I barely have to speak since Mom and Quinn do most of that getting to know each other. As the two most important women in my life, I like seeing them bond, but I’m also hesitant to get either of their hopes up. Mom would love a daughter-in-law and some grandchildren, but those things just aren’t in the cards for me. Granted, Quinn is the only one who ever made me question my conviction to remain single for life, but even then, she’s just married to me as a favor. We’re two consenting adults enjoying each other’s company in pursuit of the greater good—sticking it to my father.
Over dessert, Mom brings up the wedding. “I can’t believe I wasn’t invited.”
Quinn glances at me for help, but I shrug, my mouth full of lemon meringue pie. “It was a last-minute thing.”
My mother sucks her teeth. Even though she knows the situation, she can’t help herself. “A girl’s wedding should never be a last-minute thing. Didn’t you always want a big wedding?”
I look at Quinn, suddenly curious for the answer. I’d never actually imagined her dreaming about her wedding.
“Maybe before, but since my mom died, I kind of just imagined a small affair, maybe on the beach somewhere tropical.”
Mom hums her approval. “My wedding was garish and overpriced. I wouldn’t have minded something more intimate. Are there pictures?”
Quinn takes her phone from her purse and the two of them coo over the pictures Quinn’s friend took at the courthouse. I haven’t even seen them yet. It never occurred to me to ask. Afterward, my mom gives Quinn a tour of the townhouse. I linger downstairs but can still hear her when she opens the door to the guest room.
“The two of us have to stick together,” my mom says to Quinn. I’m sure she thinks her voice is low, but her hearing is going, and she talks a little too loud now. “Kingsbury men have a habit of being a little clueless when it comes to their women. Wes isn’t as bad as his father, but he isn’t always easy. This room is yours if you ever need to get away.”
