by Roxy Reid
She changes into her pajamas. This time it’s an old, oversized t-shirt that would be modest if the fabric weren’t worn so thin. She goes into the bathroom to clean her face and do her evening routine, then she comes back to her side of the bed.
She takes off her jewelry and lays it on the bedside stand—everything but her wedding ring.
I remember how she didn’t want to have sex wearing the proof of our lie last night. Yet, now she’s sliding under the covers, wedding ring firmly in place.
Right, then. Leave it to Grace to figure out a way to tell me she doesn’t want to have sex without saying a single word.
I’m not ready to lie down next to her yet, so I take a shower. I take my time, letting the hot water sluice over my skin. I try not to think of Grace, but there’s nothing else to think about. No work problem to solve. Nothing.
As I shut off the shower and towel off, I decide I really need a job. For my sanity. Right now, I feel too much like a 50s housewife, waiting for her man to come home and pay attention to her. Not that any of the women I know who actually were 50s housewives ever lived such passive lives. My own gran would smack me upside the head if I ever implied her world had revolved solely around waiting for someone to come home.
I look at myself in the mirror. There are bags under my eyes from the sleep I didn’t get last night. I look exhausted and wired all at once.
“You’re losing it,” I tell my reflection sternly.
It’s probably for the best that Grace doesn’t want to have sex again. At this rate, I’m developing a crush on my bloody wife. Someone has to put the breaks on this, and it’s clearly not going to be me.
I finish up in the bathroom, turn out the lights, and climb into bed. In the darkness, I can smell the scent of Grace’s shampoo. I fight the urge to roll toward her and bury my face in her hair. Instead, I roll to my side, turning my back to her.
Then I feel a small, delicate tap on my shoulder.
“Would you put this on your bedside table?” she asks. She passes me her wedding ring.
My breath hitches.
“You’re not out of my system, either,” she breathes. “Once more? To get it out of our systems?”
There’s that saying, insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. In this case, I’m willing to go insane.
I put her ring on my nightstand. The small clink echoes in the darkness.
I roll back to Grace and cup her breast. The shirt is as soft as it looks. I can see why she wears it. But I know she’s even softer underneath.
“Sure, love,” I say. “Let me work it all out for you.”
She sighs in relief and surrenders herself to me.
14
Grace
Who cares if they said something mean about you on TV? Just look at your bank account and sigh happily. That’s what millionaires do, right?
—Grace Blackwood, text to Sean Johnson, a week after he sold his second company
I fly into Seattle a very satisfied woman. The things Sean did to me last night … I sigh and part my legs instinctively, just thinking about it.
Today is technically a slow day. No book readings, just an interview on an afternoon talk show on one of the bigger local TV news stations. At the beginning of the tour, I was nervous about the few television appearances Nora scheduled for me, but now I’ve done enough readings to feel well and truly prepared. There is no way a reporter can ask me a question that’s weirder than some of the stuff I’ve been getting at the signings. Yesterday, a man broke down crying, asking if there was any hope he could repair his relationship with his Sally. It took me five whole minutes to figure out Sally was his dog.
Next to me, Sean’s actually working for once. I don’t know if it’s flying into one of the tech capitals of America, or if he’s just tired of watching me have all the career fun. At the start of the flight, he pulled out his tablet and a napkin he’d jotted down some ideas on earlier in the trip. He’s been researching and planning the whole flight. I know he’s really working because when I ask what he’s doing, he angles his tablet away from me and mumbles, “Not ready yet,” like a kid who doesn’t want to show anyone his art project. It’s oddly adorable.
He doesn’t look up until we land. As we walk up the aisle and out into the Seattle airport, I turn my phone back on. It immediately lights up with dozens of messages from Nora. I click on the first one.
HEAD STRAIGHT TO THE STATION. They’ve moved your time slot up an hour.
I check the time. Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit!
We still have time to get there in time, but my lovely relaxed day just became a time-crunch. Luckily, we brought our suitcases on board, so we don’t have to stop in the baggage claim.
“Sean, we need to hurry,” I say, charging off toward the airport exit where the taxis are.
I walk fast, dodging in between people, knowing Sean’s following me.
“They moved my interview up an hour,” I explain.
There’s no response. I glance back over my shoulder and realize Sean is not, in fact, behind me. No, he’s back where we exited the plane, frowning at his tablet in deep concentration.
“Sean Bronson!” I bellow.
His head snaps up. He jogs over to me. “Sorry, I just had an idea, and I wanted to check—”
“They moved my interview up by an hour,” I interrupt.
“Shit,” he says and shoves his tablet into his carry-on.
We race to the taxis. It’s only when we’re safely in a cab on the way to the interview that I check the rest of Nora’s messages, and then the other shoe drops. My stomach tightens as I read why they moved my time slot earlier.
It’s because they want Sean to join me. Seattle is enough of an industry town that people know who Sean is. The fact that I’m newly married to him and selling a book about relationships makes my interview about a self-help book a lot more interesting.
Apparently.
The good news is, the earlier time slot means more people will see my interview. The bad news is, Sean and I now have to fake being a couple in front of viewers across a major metropolitan area.
Nora already told the station that Sean would be happy to do the interview, but I saw the way Sean’s temper frayed at my parents’ house. I have a sudden vision of Sean going off on a reporter for asking a stupid question. The internet will turn it into gifs and memes, and people will pass it around as a great example of a man standing up for his partner. Meanwhile, the book I’m supposed to be promoting will become a mere footnote. It’s not exactly a great look for a professional woman to bring my husband along to defend me, either.
I look at Sean. That’s all if he agrees to do the interview in the first place.
Well, too late to worry about that now.
“Oh, that pizza place is great,” Sean says, pointing at a restaurant as we drive by. “They sit you at these big tables, so you get to meet everyone around you. We should go there after.”
“Sean, I have some bad news.”
Immediately, I have his attention. “What?”
“The station wants you to do the interview with me. They want us to talk about our marriage. Nora already agreed.” I hold my breath, waiting for his response.
Sean’s face looks like a thundercloud. “Someone I don’t even know says I’ll do an interview without checking with me, and I’m supposed to jump?”
“You met her at the party,” I say.
Sean scowls.
His hand is resting on the seat between us. I put my hand over his. He looks away.
“I’m sorry, Sean. She should have asked, but we were on the plane, and she had to make a decision.”
He doesn’t say anything.
“Will you do it, Sean? Please? As a favor to me?”
Sean looks back at me. He heaves a sigh. “Fine. I’ll do it, but we’re only talking about your book. I’m not talking about my old company. I’m not taking the heat for the people who got laid off after tho
se company’s stocks plummeted. I didn’t ruin those companies. I just predicted it was going to happen.”
I sigh in relief. “Deal. I don’t want you stealing my limelight, either.”
I think about warning him that we’ll need to be careful to make our relationship looks believable, but I don’t want the cab driver to overhear us.
Please let this not blow up in my face, I think.
The TV station is busy. The people who work in front of the camera are perfectly made-up and dressed in bright, professional clothes. The people who work behind the camera are dressed in dark, informal, vaguely sloppy clothes. Everyone gives off an air of focused efficiency.
After we check in, a tall female intern drops us off in a room with snacks, water, two chairs, a TV, and a large mirror.
“You’re on in half an hour. I’ll come to get you before that. Also, sign these,” the intern says, thrusting clipboards at each of us.
It’s a waver giving them permission to use footage of us. I sign quickly and hand it back to the intern. Sean ignores the intern and reads the entire waver. The room fills with an awkward silence while he reads. Maybe I only feel awkward because I’m about to go on TV and lie to everyone about my perfect relationship.
I smile brightly at the intern. “So, how long have you worked here?” I ask.
“A couple of months. My uncle was supposed to get me an internship at TechDelish, but he got laid off when their stock crashed. He lost his house.” She throws Sean a dirty look.
I wince. TechDelish was a restaurant delivery app that seemed untouchable until Sean’s app predicted they were overvalued. A month later, they revealed they were practically bankrupt.
Sean ignores us and finishes reading the waver. Once done, he scrawls his signature and passes the clipboard over to the intern. The intern turns on her heel and marches out without saying anything else to us.
I start to get a bad feeling about the interview. I assumed they wanted Sean as a puff piece. Handsome tech millionaire gets married, that sort of thing. But what if Sean was right? What if they’re using me to put him in the hot seat?
“Does that happen often?” I ask Sean.
He shrugs. “Comes with the territory. We thought about calling my app The Messenger.”
I blink at that non-sequitur, and then it clicks. “As in, don’t shoot the messenger?’”
His smile flashes, quick and irreverent. “The investors wanted a more serious name. I was overruled.”
I can’t help it. I smile in response. I also realize Sean doesn’t live quite as charmed a life as I think he does. Half the people he loves are an ocean away. Random people feel like they can come up and blame him for all the bad things that happen when big companies fail. I know he has friends over here, but most of them are work friends. I used to be the only one of his friends who’d never ask him for anything.
Now, here I am, asking him to fake our marriage for six months. Maybe a year.
I walk to Sean and kiss him. I’m gentle with him. I feel his breathing slow. I touch his face with one hand, feeling all the strength there. I ease away, and Sean’s eyes flutter open slowly, like he’s surprised to find himself at a TV station.
“What was that for?” he asks, his voice low and rough.
“I owe you,” I say.
His smile is warm and crooked. “It’s just an interview.”
“No, for …" I don’t know how to say it or how to begin to encompass all the things he’s giving me. “I owe you.”
He loops his arms around me, resting his clasped hands at the small of my back. He kisses my neck, finding that spot I like, and I feel it in my sex.
“I do like a woman who needs me,” Sean says, and the way he says it, it’s pure filth. I can’t help but think of all the ways I needed him last night. And the night before.
“I wouldn’t want you to feel indebted to me, though,” Sean says. He trails his lips up to my neck then nips at my earlobe. “How about I let you work off that debt tonight?”
“Sean,” I say weakly. I place my hand on his chest. I’m not sure if it’s to shove him away or if it’s because I need something to lean on when he talks to me like this.
“We said we wouldn’t do it again,” I say. “We were just going to—”
“I know, I know, work it out of our systems.”
He glides the back of his hand up my torso and starts idly running his thumbnail over one of my nipples, over and over again. He’s giving me butterflies in my stomach and making me wet at the same time. If he doesn’t stop soon, we’re both going to be unfit for TV.
“The thing is,” Sean says, “I don’t think I’m out of your system. I think you want me just as badly as before. Maybe more.”
I don’t say anything, but my hand that used to lie neutrally against his chest is now fisted in his shirt. Sean gives up torturing my breast and slowly runs the back of his hand down my stomach. He traces the waistband of my skirt, stopping to fiddle with the side zipper at my hip.
“Third time’s a charm,” he says. And oh, hell. That’s when I know it. I am going to give in to Sean tonight. Despite all logic and common sense, I am going to give in to biology and let this man do anything he wants to me.
“We don’t even need to wait for tonight,” Sean says. “After the interview—”
“Speaking of the interview,” I say, forcing myself to step out of his arms. “They’re probably going to ask stupid questions about my book. Don’t jump in to defend me like you did at my parents’ house. I need to fight my own battles.”
His face changes from playful to grim, but he nods agreement. Sean doesn’t like the idea of leaving me to fend for myself, but he’s got enough experience with the media to know he has to.
He goes to check himself in the mirror before the interview, and we both realize at the same time that he has some of my lipstick on his lower lip from where I sucked it. I feel heat flare again, but I ignore the feeling and dig out a makeup remover wipe from my purse.
“Here,” I say, holding it out to him.
Sean blinks at the wipe like he doesn’t know what to do with it. I roll my eyes and step over to him so that I can clean his face myself. He smiles and sits down on the counter that runs below the mirror so that I can reach him more easily.
“Stop smiling,” I say. “I can’t get it when you keep moving your mouth.”
“I’ve never felt so married,” he teases, and for some reason, I blush.
Although, actually, there is still one thing we need to discuss. I look around to make sure no one’s listening, but of course, we’re alone in the room. It’s not as if either of us is wearing a mic yet. Still, I lean into his ear and whisper the next part.
“This needs to be convincing, Sean. We need to convince everyone we’re in love. So if something happens like at the party and one of us needs to tell a lie fast to keep everyone from seeing the truth, then lie. Tell any lie you want. I will back you up on it. And if I have to lie … well, I’m going to have to ask for your forgiveness instead of your permission.”
He nods like he understands, but I still feel worried.
The door opens. It’s the intern, back to take us to get our mics on. Then we’ll head over to the set. Sean must be able to tell I’m still worried because as we follow the intern down a hallway, he lays a comforting hand on the back of my neck.
“Don’t worry, love,” he says quietly into my ear, so only I can hear him. “I’ve got you.”
It’s ridiculous to feel so comforted by a simple statement, but I do.
“Thanks,” I say, and I mean it.
His smile shifts from comforting to wicked as his thumb traces the spot on my neck where he kissed me earlier. With the knowing way he’s looking at me, I can tell he’s doing it on purpose.
“You can make it up to me later,” Sean says. His thumb circles the spot on my neck in a discretely erotic massage.
My stomach flips, but this time, it has nothing to do with nerves.
&
nbsp; Seven minutes into the ten-minute interview, I finally relax. It really is just a puff piece. They introduce Sean, along with how much each of the companies he founded sold for, but they don’t ask any questions about his work. They just want to know about what made the millionaire fall in love with the girl next door.
Sean takes my hand and flashes me a smile that I’m sure has people swooning across Seattle.
“Falling for Grace was easy. Convincing her to fall for me was the hard part.” He looks boyish and roguish as he says it. “It would have been nice to have her book when I was trying to convince her to take me seriously. Lucky for all you single men out there, it’s published now.”
The host laughs good-naturedly, and they segue back into talking about my book.
We’re in the home stretch when the host leans over and says, “Our last question is for Sean. Grace, you write in your book about how important it is for your partner to be fully accepted by your friends and family. Sean, you’ve said in interviews before how important your mother is to you. So tell us, what did she say when she met Grace?”
For just a second, Sean’s hand tenses in mine.
Shit. We didn’t plan for this. I want to jump in and steer the conversation. For one thing, she is totally misinterpreting that part of my book. But that would look suspicious since the reporter specifically asked Sean.
Sean relaxes. His smile is broad and open.
“Sure, to tell you the truth, she hasn’t actually met her yet. My mum’s back in Ireland,” he explains. He’s definitely letting his accent come out more thickly. His voice is more lilting, his r’s are softer and more rural. “It all happened so fast. When you know, you know. But my mum can’t wait to meet Grace.”
I think that will work, if only because Sean’s accent is pretty hot, and someone behind the camera is signaling that we’re almost out of time.
But the reporter raises her eyes in disbelief. “You haven’t introduced her to your mother?”
“She is in Ireland,” I say weakly.
