by Jiffy Kate
Wear long-sleeved shirts and long pants made of natural fibers.
Check. Check. Even though it’s hot as shit, I made the sacrifice and wore a thin, linen button-up shirt with a pair of wide-leg pants and some flats. The look I was going for was casual, yet put together, and safety first, of course.
Select a seat on the aisle, somewhere near the end half of the cabin.
Now, see, how am I going to do that when this plane looks like it only seats about twenty people?
“Well, allow me to pop your cherry,” Shep says, seduction rolling off his tongue.
I want to glare at him—burn holes through his meticulous suit for making me think about sex at a time like this—but instead, I take his proffered hand and step out of the car. “And relax,” he whispers, slipping my hand through the crook of his elbow and leading me to the steps of the plane. “It’s going to be the best ride of your life.”
Are we still talking about the plane ride?
Damn him.
Damn him for being so sweet and making me lose my resolve.
Because even though I should be fortifying my walls, I’m not. Instead, I’m latching onto him and absorbing his air of confidence and surety, clinging to it like a damn lifeline.
“Mr. Rhys-Jones,” the flight attendant greets as Shep enters the cabin of the plane. “So nice to see you again.”
“Rachel,” Shep greets, still holding onto my hand, which is now tucked safely behind his back. The heavens shine on me and I get a front-row seat to Shep’s ass, and it is a glorious sight. “Will anyone be accompanying us today?”
“No, sir,” she replies in a mellow, soothing tone. “The plane will be all yours.”
When I take the last step, my mouth gapes at the interior. If I thought the outside of the plane was sleek, I don’t even know what to classify this.
Rich.
Filthy stinking rich.
It’s the things movies are made of.
Like, I’m Julia Fucking Roberts and this is the set of Pretty Woman.
“This is my…wife,” Shep says and I practically swallow my tongue when my heart leaps into my throat at the mention. “CeCe.”
That’s the first time I’ve heard him call me that…his wife. He should win an Oscar. The way his tongue caresses the word is so believable. It’s accompanied by adoration, something you only hear in people’s voices when they speak about something—or someone—they truly love.
Bravo.
The Oscar for Best Performance in a Fake Marriage goes to Shepard Rhys-Jones.
Thankfully, I’m able to rally and give her a smile. “Hello.”
“This is her first time flying,” Shep informs, garnering me an astonished look from Rachel—the tall, blonde flight attendant. She’s more Shep’s style and as I really look at her, I see the familiarity in her gaze when she looks at him and the genuine surprise when she hears his announcement. But it’s not just because I’ve never flown before, no it’s more than that. She’s shocked Shep is married. And she’s probably shocked Shep would marry someone who’s never been on a plane before.
She’s shocked because she knows him.
Like, knows him knows him.
In the biblical sense.
After we’re seated in the plush leather seats that are more comfortable than any chair I own or have ever sat in, I buckle my seatbelt and swallow down the nerves that have come back full force and are competing with the realization Shep has more than likely fucked the flight attendant. Which means she knows what he looks like under that suit and I don’t like it. In my small bubble that is the French Quarter, I’m the only one who’s ever seen that, at least to my knowledge. But the realization that I’m possibly getting ready to face a slew of women who know Shep—my husband—in an intimate manner is unsettling.
In real life, it’s none of my business.
However, in this fake reality I’m living in, I feel like it is.
I’ve never been the jealous type. Truth be told, I’ve never had a reason to be jealous. Sure, I’ve had a few boyfriends—one fairly long-term relationship in high school—but I never got attached.
I never practiced writing my name with a boy’s last name.
I never planned out my wedding.
I never daydreamed about my future children…or given them names.
I don’t have a hope chest.
I don’t have a five-year plan that includes two and a half kids and a white picket fence.
So, why am I sitting here stewing over the stewardess?
“Nervous?” Shep asks, stretching his long legs out in front of him, drawing my attention back to the here and now. “Need a drink?”
“Yes, a little…and no, I’ll be fine.”
To distract myself, I go back to my pre-flight checklist.
Listen to your safety briefings.
Hopefully, we get one of those.
Locate your nearest exit.
Check.
Count the seats between you and the nearest exits in case the cabin should fill with smoke.
That’s easy. Two. Check.
Practice opening your seatbelt a few times.
Reaching to my waist, I unlatch my seatbelt and then slide it back into place…and repeat.
“What are you doing?” Shep asks with his head leaned back and his eyes closed.
“Practicing opening my seatbelt.”
“Why?”
“It’s part of the How to Survive A Plane Crash article I read on CBSNews last night.”
There’s a brief stretch of silence before Shep pulls his long legs up and leans forward, practically cornering me in and using up my personal space. “Do you always do that?”
“What?” I ask, tucking hair behind my ear.
That’s my nervous tick.
Anytime I feel unsure of myself or anxious, I tuck my hair.
Shep rakes his fingers through his.
We all have something.
“Prepare for the worst?”
Well, shit.
“What? I don’t,” I lie.
“Yes, you do,” he insists. “I’ve watched you. You might think you fly under the radar, and you might fly under most people’s, but not mine. I see you, Cecelia.”
“Don’t call me that.”
He chuckles, that low, throaty sound that does things to my body, things I don’t approve of and didn’t ask for. Things I thought I’d never feel again. At least, not after our weekend together.
“Why?” he asks, nailing me with his icy blue eyes. “I like it.”
Clearing my throat, I brush my hair back again, tucking strands behind my ear. “Well, it’s CeCe to you…and everyone else.”
Cecelia was my grandmother’s name and the only people who have the right to something so sentimental are my mother and sister, but even they don’t use that name. Well, my mama does when she’s mad at me or when she’s really trying to get me to listen to her. It has to be important.
It’s too familiar.
Speaking of familiar…“So, you and the flight attendant?” I ask in an effort to redirect the conversation and get this attention off me and onto him.
I don’t miss the smirk before Shep asks, “What about us?”
My cheeks heat. I expected him to lie or divert. I didn’t expect him to be so forward, but I should have. Shep loves to get under my skin, so of course, he’s going to take this opportunity to make me squirm.
“You fucked her.”
One of his well-groomed eyebrows lifts and he shrugs—so aloof and cool. “And?”
I’m trying to stay one step ahead of him, but it’s hard. I never know what’s going to come out of his mouth. How am I ever going to keep up with him when we’re with his family? They’re going to smell my lies from a mile away.
“Did you ghost her too?”
Oh, there it is. I did not mean for that to come out. Shit.
“Mr. Rhys-Jones,” a male voice says, coming over a hidden speaker and saving us from that awkward conver
sation. “We’ve been cleared for takeoff.”
Shep leans over and his lips are brushing my ear when he whispers in a low, guttural tone, “Fasten that buckle and hold on tight.”
Chapter 11
Shep
Did you ghost her too?
CeCe’s question is playing on repeat in my mind as the plane begins its ascent, but I quickly forget it when I feel her hand clutch the sleeve of my suit. Glancing over at her, I notice the set of her jaw and how her nostrils are flared and her eyes are closed.
“You good?” I ask, reaching for her hand.
When she takes mine willingly, I can’t help but think how perfect it feels. And how good it feels…and right.
Breathing deeply, she mutters, “I’m fine.”
She’s obviously not, but she’s working hard to convince herself as much. But that’s CeCe. She’s self-reliant and self-contained. She’s not needy and she doesn’t want anyone taking care of her. Those are a few of her characteristics that make me attracted to her. As much as I’d like to lie to myself and say she’s just another fuck from my past, I can’t. Because she’s not. She’s Cecilia Calhoun and she’s different from anyone I’ve ever been with or known. There’s a goodness that’s soul-deep and it shows. She has this magnetic quality about her that makes you feel better about yourself by just being near her.
It freaked me out two years ago.
When we spent the weekend together, I went into it thinking it’d just be a quick one-night stand. But the next morning, I woke up and saw her lying beside me and I couldn’t stop staring at her. My hands itched to touch her, but the thought of waking her was enough to keep me from it. I just wanted to watch her sleep. Eventually, I tried to put some distance between us by jumping in the shower, but when I came out and she was slipping on her shoes, I couldn’t let her go.
So, instead, I kissed her.
And pushed her against the hotel room door, taking her once more.
And then on the desk.
And again, in the shower.
We christened every surface of that hotel room, until we were spent and the only thing either of us could do was crawl in bed and fall asleep. Later, we’d ordered food and had it delivered, and all I wanted was her presence and her conversation. When we fell asleep again and I woke up with her sleepy, warm body wrapped around mine, the only thing I could think about was spending another day with her…and another…and another. And I knew.
I had to get the fuck out of there or I was never going to leave.
So, I packed my shit and slipped out of the room and caught a flight back to Dallas.
That saying about catching flights instead of feelings could be my life motto.
In a matter of forty-eight hours, she’d gotten under my skin. I couldn’t stick around and make a mess of things. Because, let’s face it, that’s all that would’ve happened. I’m no good at relationships.
On my way back to Dallas, I thought about her—played our weekend together over and over in my head—and tried to picture plausible outcomes, but all of them ended with CeCe hating me and in turn, Maverick being pissed off at me.
I couldn’t risk it.
The only true relationship that exists in my life, outside of my fucked-up family, is Maverick.
So, why now? How did I let this happen—married to CeCe?
Good fucking question.
All I know is when she offered, I jumped. After the night at Come Again, I went back to my apartment and mulled over all my possible options and marrying CeCe was the only one that felt right.
Just like her hand in mine.
When her grip begins to loosen, I glance over and watch as her eyes stay glued to the open window. It’s dark, so there’s not much to see, especially now that we’re thirty thousand feet in the air. But still, she seems to be mesmerized and a lot less nervous.
“Not so bad, right?”
She huffs a laugh, dropping my hand and rubbing her palms down the front of her pants. “Yeah, it’s not so bad.” Turning she meets my eyes and I wish I knew exactly what she was thinking, but CeCe always keeps her true feelings close to her chest. “Pretty awesome, actually.”
“I can’t believe you’ve never been on a plane before.”
CeCe’s back stiffens and she sits a little straighter in her seat. Glancing down at her lap, she tightens her seatbelt again as she mutters, “Well, we didn’t really take vacations when I was growing up and I’ve worked at the coffee shop since I was eighteen…so.”
She’s defending herself, but I didn’t mean it as a dig. I only meant I’m surprised she’s never been anywhere because she seems like someone who’s seen the world, but maybe she just has that air about her because she’s seen the world come through her doors.
New Orleans is one of those cities that attracts people from all over and it’s comprised of all walks of life. CeCe reflects that.
“I didn’t mean anything by it,” I offer, not wanting to get off on a bad foot, especially since we’re getting ready to have to be a united front. “I also didn’t realize you’d worked at Neutral Grounds since you were eighteen.”
Relaxing a little, she settles back into the seat. “I have,” she confirms and for a second I think she’s going to stop at that short answer, but then I notice the way she worries her bottom lip with her teeth and I know there’s something else she wants to say. “It was my uncle’s shop. He left it to my mom who passed it on to me.”
I think I knew that bit of information. It’s something Maverick has mentioned in passing, maybe when I bought the building next door to her.
“It’s actually why I agreed to this…” she says, drifting off as her eyes go back to the dark window. “Someone is threatening to take it away from me.”
“What?” Why haven’t I heard about this before now? Not that I’m privy to every detail of CeCe’s life, but bits and pieces usually make their way to me, especially important stuff, like someone trying to take the shop.
“It’s a new development. Jules is helping me look into it, but I’ll probably have to hire a lawyer and fight it in court. It’s going to cost me. But I have no choice, the shop is all I have.”
My blood is pumping faster. I’m angry, on CeCe’s behalf. That protectiveness I’ve been feeling since the judge pronounced us husband and wife is in overdrive. How dare someone try to take what’s hers.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask, my voice rising even though I don’t mean for it to.
CeCe shifts in her seat and turns toward me, her eyes widening at my tone. “It’s not something I’m just going around telling everyone.”
I want to tell her I’m not everyone.
I’m her husband.
But I shut that shit down and try to play off my reaction. “Well, I could help you.”
“You already are.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
She lets out a deep breath and turns back to the window, avoiding my stare. “You’re giving me a million dollars.”
“Not for a year.”
Shrugging, she glances over her shoulder. “At least I know now if I have to take a loan out to fight this, I’ll be able to pay it off. It feels like I have a safety net again.”
And that’s what it all boils down to with her.
The pre-flight checklist.
The knowledge she’ll be able to pay legal fees.
She always has to know what her Plan B is…and Plans C and D.
I wonder what her strategy is when it comes to meeting my parents.
“So why are we doing this?” CeCe asks, pulling me out of my thoughts.
“What? Flying?”
She shakes her head, leaning deeper into the seat and exhaling. “No, this…going to a reception…meeting your parents,” she clarifies. “I thought you’d just need a piece of paper and we’d need to…I don’t know, not kill each other for three hundred and sixty-five days. It seems like a little too much to go to this length for a temporary…arrangement.”
>
Her air quotes make me laugh while contemplating an answer to her question.
“Pretense,” I reply. It’s the one word that explains my family. “The one thing you should know about the Rhys-Joneses is that we are always keeping up a pretense.”
Her eyes bore into mine, like they can see my soul and she’s stripping my reply down to bare bones, examining it like a cadaver. “Do your parents know we only married for your inheritance?”
“Yes,” I say, simply. “Not by my admission, but due to my sudden change of marital status…yes. They might be a lot of things, but they’re not stupid. Plus, they’d do the same if they were in my shoes.” Bringing one leg up, I cross my ankle over my knee, shifting in my seat to face CeCe. Shit’s about to get real. “I’ve told you before, my parents got married for money. There’s nothing surprising about what we’re doing. But don’t be shocked if my mother still brings suitors around. She’ll probably invite women she thinks I should’ve married instead of you to the reception tomorrow night. There’s no sanctity to the institution in their circle. Whatever gets you higher on the ladder is all that matters. But they’re all the same—plastic, trust fund babies with fake degrees and titles that don’t mean shit. Be on guard and don’t tell anyone anything. If they ask about your family, divert to the weather…or how you’re just dying to get the newest Hermès bag.”
“The what?” she asks, confusion thick in her tone.
Waving it off, I continue. “Just don’t give them shit. They don’t deserve to know anything about you.”
“Right,” she agrees, nodding, but obviously worried now that I’ve thrown all of that on her.
Reaching over on instinct, I place my hand over hers, grasping her fingers. “Look, just be yourself…it’ll be fine.”
She exhales, turning her gaze out the window. “At least I have a night to sleep on it and get my shit together,” she mutters.
Oh, fuck.
I might’ve left out one small detail. “Actually, we’ll be staying with my parents.”
Chapter 12
CeCe
My interest in looking out my window at the dark unknown evaporates.
Turning to look at Shep—my husband, who just dropped a bomb the size of Hiroshima—dead in the eyes. “What do you mean we’re staying at your parents’ house? What happened to your fancy house?”
