by Lisa Suzanne
“Why?”
She lifts a shoulder. “Everyone got busy. Eddie was dating the girl who he eventually married at the time. They have three kids now. Jimmy got married and had kids, then Keith. David and Joey aren’t married but David’s been dating a girl for years. It’s hard to coordinate schedules now with all that going on.”
“I forgot how many brothers you have. Are they going to kill me when they find out you ran off to Vegas to marry me?”
She laughs. “For the record, I ran off to Vegas to hang out with my best friend, who I barely saw the entire trip, and to get away for a while after a breakup. Somehow getting married and getting a tattoo wasn’t part of the plan.” I hold up my wrist. The preliminary research I’ve done tells me it’ll take a couple weeks before it heals. “But yes, they’ll probably kill you.”
I laugh as a way to cover up the fact that I’m a little scared of her family. “Favorite band?” I ask.
“MFB, naturally.”
My chest unexpectedly tightens at her words. I’m not sure if she’s just saying it because we’re in the car together, but hearing it does something to me that I wasn’t prepared for...and I’m not sure why.
Usually I stay far away from the fangirls.
But I’m reminded once again how different this one is.
“Okay, next question,” I begin, but she cuts me off.
“Uh, I don’t think so, pal.”
I glare over at her. “That’s the game. Five questions.”
“Yeah, and you just had your five.”
“That was three!” I protest. “Favorite color, best vacation, and favorite band.”
She raises a brow and starts ticking them off. “Color, vacation, why it was my favorite, whether my brothers are going to kill you, and favorite band. That’s five.”
I narrow my eyes at her. “I mean technically, but some of those were follow-ups.”
“You made up the rules, not me.”
I blow out a breath. “Stickler.”
She laughs. “Now it’s your turn for the hot seat.”
“Go for it. I’m an open book.”
She thinks for a minute. “Favorite band?”
“MFB.”
She laughs. “Best US city to play?”
“Nashville.”
I assume she’ll follow up with why, but she doesn’t. “Biggest high school crush?”
“Jennifer Berry.”
She wrinkles her nose. “Jennifer Berry?” She looks like she wants to comment further on that, but she refrains, instead opting to ask the next question. “How often do you make it home to visit your family?”
“A few times a year.”
“Biggest regret?”
I laugh. “Getting deep already?”
She shrugs, but she doesn’t say anything.
I think for a minute, and then I say, “Ending things on bad terms with someone I saw in my future.”
She’s quiet for a beat as she processes that, and then she turns to me and grins. “Not getting married while you were blackout drunk in Vegas?”
I laugh. “Or that.” I do regret it, I guess...but more and more I’m seeing the benefits of it.
“Are you over her?” she asks quietly.
I didn’t think I was completely over her until I saw Emily Clarke all grown up as she stepped foot into my hotel room Thursday afternoon.
I obviously don’t say that, though.
“Yeah. I am. And now it’s my turn to ask the questions. What’s your biggest regret?”
“Settling.”
“This doesn’t count as a follow up question, but what do you mean?”
She lifts a shoulder. “Not reaching higher. Settling for Chad, settling for a job that isn’t what I really want, that kind of thing.”
“What do you really want?” I ask, my voice soft as a part of me I never knew existed hopes she’ll say that it’s me she really wants...that it’s me she’s always wanted.
She assumes I mean for a career. “You know when people ask what you want to be when you grow up? I never answered bank teller. When I was little, I wanted to be a teacher. When I started getting a little older, I wanted to own my own company, so I majored in business but I was sort of unsure what I wanted to do with it. And now I’m twenty-four. Shouldn’t I know the answer to that by now?”
I shake my head, a little surprised at her candid response. Emily Clarke never struck me as the girl who didn’t know what she wanted out of life, but I’m learning a lot about my wife on this road trip. “You really don’t know what sort of business you’d want to run?”
She lifts a shoulder like she knows but she’s embarrassed to say. I reach over and take her hand for a beat before I realize what I’m doing. I give it a little squeeze to let her know she can tell me anything before I let go.
Something about the intimacy of taking her hand in mine feels so completely natural. It shouldn’t. We’re not there yet.
But I can’t ignore the feelings that lit up my chest at our touch.
“Accounting,” she blurts. “I like numbers, and I wish I would’ve majored in accounting instead of business. I didn’t realize that until I started working at a bank, though, and I can’t ask my parents to pay tuition on another degree, so I’m working until I can afford to go back to school on my own.”
Accounting?
My heart warms.
When I think of accountants, I tend to picture the guy who used to handle my parents’ finances: Arthur Horne. He was old and constantly pushed his glasses up his nose and had a white mustache and I’m pretty sure I never saw him crack a smile a day in his life.
She’s such a beautiful little nerd.
“Can I make a confession?” I ask.
She glances over at me, and I take that as a yes.
“If MFB didn’t take off like it did, I have no idea what I’d be doing. Out of the five of us, I’m always the most concerned about our success, about pushing forward and taking opportunities that are presented to us. I think it’s because I never had a back-up plan. There was never anything I wanted to do but play guitar.”
“That really surprises me,” she says. “You always seemed to have your shit together.”
I laugh. “I do have my shit together.” Don’t I? This weekend doesn’t seem to prove that. Silence falls between us, and I break it this time by teasing her. “So your biggest regret isn’t getting married while you were blackout drunk in Vegas?”
She giggles. “Far from it.”
My chest tightens at her words again, but I brush it off. “How many questions was that?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. Five?”
We both laugh. The questions move back to surface stuff, but every answer she gives is like a little piece of the Emily puzzle clicking into place, and the more the pieces start to form a whole picture, the more I like what I see.
The time flies, and it feels like five minutes instead of five hours when I find myself pulling into the driveway. A little cloud of sadness falls over me that this time together is done. Now we move onto the next phase of whatever this is between us—signing paperwork from lawyers, finding somewhere to live, continuing the ruse.
It didn’t feel like a ruse in the car with her.
It felt like a pivot point for us. It felt like I was getting to know the girl I just started dating a little better.
It felt like we were connecting on a new level.
It felt like I was developing new feelings I want to continue exploring.
But now we’re home, and things will shift again.
A little bullet of sadness races through me at the thought.
I unlock my front door to let her in.
It’s dark since all the curtains are drawn closed, but it’s clean since Dax hired a service to stop by and dust every few weeks when we’re on the road.
“This is it,” I say, holding my hands out. To the right is the expansive kitchen, and to the left is the huge family room with stairs leading up to th
e bedrooms. Dax knocked down a few walls to make this a house where we could entertain, so the first floor is really open except for the office at the back and a bathroom. The soundproof basement is where we practice and write our music.
“It’s really nice,” she says softly.
“Let me get our bags upstairs and I’ll show you where we’ll sleep.” She follows me up the stairs. “This is the restroom,” I say, pointing out the one I share with Kane and Rascal. I open a door. “And this is where the magic happens.”
It looks the same as when I left it. It’s a large room filled with the basics. I’m a simple guy who doesn’t really need much, but when I moved in, Bree insisted I make it feel like our own little slice of home, and that’s why I have a recliner, a couch, a dresser, and a bed.
“You can have my bed. I’ll sleep on the couch,” I say, not leaving it up for debate.
“No, Adam. I can’t just take your bed. I’ll take the couch.”
I shake my head. “It’s not comfortable. I couldn’t do that to you.”
“Then we’ll just...” she looks around wildly like she’s trying to decide what to say, and when she finishes that sentence, I’m frankly shocked, “share the bed.” She shrugs. “It’ll be fine. We’re just friends anyway, right?”
“Right,” I murmur, turning away as I try to pretend like that’s not a shot right to the heart.
She just wants to be friends, and it seems like she keeps making that clear to me. She agreed to this arrangement for the money or because I’m her best friend’s brother or for some other reason, not because she wants to actually be with me.
My lifestyle isn’t for everybody, and I get that.
But I was under this crazy impression that she’d always had a crush on me. Maybe I was wrong all those years. Maybe it was my own arrogance that led me to believe that rather than reality.
It doesn’t matter.
She’s my wife, and we’ve got parts to play.
I text the lawyer and ask him to draft up a contract for a personal assistant position, and then I spot a new text from my realtor with links to four potential houses.
“I have some listings for houses here if you want to take a look,” I say.
“Sure,” she says, sitting on the edge of the bed.
I click one of the links, and the first house is orange on the outside and white on the inside. It’s right on the beach with just the famous Oceanfront Boardwalk separating the house from the sand. I flip through the pictures. “What do you think of this one?”
She’s quiet, so I glance over at her. Tears glisten her eyes as she stares at my phone.
“What? What’s wrong?” I ask. “You don’t like it?” I click away from it to get the horrid thing making her feel this way off my screen. I move my thumb to click the next link, but she stops me with her hand on my forearm on just the opposite side from where my new tattoo is still healing.
She shakes her head and swipes at a tear that tips over her eyelid. “No, no. It’s nothing like that. I just never imagined I’d be able to live in a house as beautiful as that one.”
I stare at her for a few beats as I come to terms with her words. I often forget how lucky I am. I appreciate all I have, but it’s also easy to take for granted that I can afford to shell out a few million bucks on a house on the beach without a second thought.
I want her to have it.
I want her to have everything she’s ever dreamed of wanting, including this house on the beach.
It’s the least I can do to thank her for what she’s doing for me. At least I tell myself that’s the reason I want her to have it.
“Then let’s get that one.” I leave out the part about her keeping it when this is all said and done. She’d never agree to that anyway, but maybe that’ll be my final gift to her—a divorce present, if you will.
“What about the other ones?”
“Who cares?” I ask, lifting both shoulders as I toss my phone down on the bed. “This one brought you to tears. Let’s go see it, but if pictures of it have that effect on you, then I’m pretty sure it’s the one.”
She eyes me with wonder for a few beats, swipes away another tear, and then tosses her arms around my neck.
I chuckle as I pat one of her biceps, fighting every urge within me to wrap myself around her and confess how I’m starting to feel about her.
It’s for the best.
Six months. I just have to fake being in love with her for six months, and it shouldn’t be that hard since I’m already halfway there.
CHAPTER 19: EMILY
The front of the house is almost all glass and it faces the beach.
The views are unreal.
I haven’t stopped crying since we walked through the front door.
I saw the price tag. It’s a little under three million dollars.
What is this dream I’ve suddenly stepped into? I’m looking at houses on the beach with my rich, rock star husband, who I’m also personal assistant to—officially now as of this morning when I ran to the bank to quit my job.
This particular home has three bedrooms and four bathrooms and sits just under three thousand square feet and it’s absolutely freaking perfect.
I don’t need to see any other houses. Not even the ten million dollar one I saw in his messages from his realtor. Price is obviously not a worry for him, but there’s an important reason why I love this particular house.
I grew up coming to Mission Beach. My parents would take us to Belmont Park to eat hot dogs on a stick along with all the tourists. I kissed my first boy on the carousel, got felt up for the first time on the rickety old wooden roller coaster, and spent countless hours walking up and down the boardwalk along the beach with my friends—including Amber. I’d stare at the houses and dream of the day when I could afford to live in one of them, and sometimes those daydreams would even include the very man I’m here with today...I just never dreamed that it would all be for show, that it wouldn’t be because we were in love and buying a house together.
I shake away that thought.
I even remember this particular house I’m standing in now.
It stood out from the rest because of its distinct orange paint and gorgeous palm trees.
This house sits a mile and a half from Belmont Park and it’s perched right on the grounds of my old memories. Stepping inside is like being transported to a simpler time even though it’s more luxurious than anything I’ve ever stepped foot in.
And, for the next six months anyway, it’ll be mine.
I stand on the balcony overlooking the ocean. I feel Adam come up behind me and then I feel him slip his arms around my waist, playing the part in front of the realtor I suppose. I can hear the tranquil rolling of the waves from here, and I’ve never felt more at home than I do in this moment.
For just that brief millisecond, I wish with everything inside of me that it could be different—that this life didn’t have a six-month expiration date on it, that this could be my forever.
But it does, and I can’t fool myself into believing otherwise because it’ll only hurt me more in the end when it’s time to give it all up. He’s paying me to play a part, and I suppose it’s not exactly an award-winning performance to play this part I feel like I was basically born to play.
He signs the offer with the realtor while I hang out on the patio, gripping the handrail as I look out over the beach and watch the people walk just below me on the boardwalk. She leaves us to have a few minutes on our own to explore what’s about to become our new home.
“She’ll call the owners with our offer tonight,” he says, joining me on the patio. He grips the handrail, too, mirroring my position. “It’s as good as a done deal.”
“Thank you,” I whisper.
We’re quiet for a few beats, but it isn’t the awkward silence that filled the car ride on the way home after he called me his little sister’s best friend. This is a comfortable, serene silence made only more tranquil by the waves rolling in and ou
t of the shore.
“What do you love about this house?” he asks.
“Only everything,” I say, and he chuckles. “Did you ever come to this beach when you were a kid?”
He nods. “Didn’t everybody who grew up in this area come here to hang out?”
“Yeah, probably. I just remember walking that very boardwalk,” I nod down to it, “and dreaming someday of living here. It may only be for the next six months, but you’re making a childhood dream of mine a reality.” I leave out the part about how he was part of that childhood dream, too. What girl doesn’t dream of her best friend’s hot older brother?
Dream, obsess over. Same thing, right?
His phone rings when we’re on our way back to his house, and when he answers the call, the realtor’s voice fills the car.
“They accepted your offer.”
I can’t help my wide smile, and Adam’s matches mine when he glances over at me in victory. I wish we weren’t in the car right now so we could have a celebratory hug. Is that appropriate in this situation?
“Fantastic,” he says. “How soon can we close?”
“Since it’s a cash offer, we can do it in as little as a week to ten days.”
My brows shoot up. I’ve never paid cash for a house, but I thought the process took longer than that.
“Let’s get moving, then,” he says. “Let me know what we need to do.” He ends the call, and I squeal a little. “Let’s get your stuff from your ex’s house tomorrow so we’re ready to move in as soon as we can,” he says to me.
“Sounds like the perfect plan.” I don’t add that it’s the perfect plan for such an imperfect situation.
When we step through the doors of the house he shares with the other guys in MFB, they’re sitting at the kitchen table, each with a beer in front of them. They yell, “Surprise!”
Adam and I exchange a confused glance, and then he says, “What’s the surprise for?”
“It’s your bachelor party,” Dax explains.
Adam laughs and shakes his head. “Any reason to celebrate, right?”
“It was Kylie’s idea. Just a way to stay relevant. She tipped off a few media outlets about where we’ll be. She also wants you two to have a reception here in San Diego, but that’ll be for the cameras.” Dax glances over at me. “Amber gave her your number on the bus ride home.”
