by Watson, Lucy
Mrs. Baker narrows her beady eyes on him as he walks to the doorway. “Don’t be cheaping out on the heater, Sam. My bones are cold.”
“I’ll make sure to warm it up for ya.”
“Roll up the windows first. Fumes make me nauseous.”
“You got it.”
Whatever Sam gets paid, it’s not enough.
While they’re all distracted, I take the opportunity to snatch Ben so we can figure out how in the hell we’re going to fix this mess.
He’s too busy checking his phone, probably googling something about the Titanic running late, to see me closing in like a shark.
I bite before he can swim away, intertwining my arm in his warm solid one, looking up at him, until his dark eyes slowly meet mine. I ignore the flip in my belly.
My smile is marshmallow sweet with bitter undertones of murder. “Sweetheart, can I steal you for a sec?”
I grab the cup from his hand and quickly down the rest of his coffee, which tastes more like a sugary sludge than java, but I’ll take what I can get.
His penetrating gaze flicks from me to his cup now perched in my hand, and something I can’t name starts to brew in their dark depths.
“Sure thing, honey.” He stands from the counter, then tenderly brushes my wild hair from my forehead and tucks it behind my ear, like it’s second nature for him to touch me like this.
My breath hitches as his heavy hand rests on my neck and his thumb gently brushes my cheek.
“Want more coffee?” His voice is low and velvety. His eyes drop to my lips, sending a thrill up my spine.
Once upon a time, I was a girl who dreamed of moments like this. Dreamed of a guy looking at me the way Ben’s looking at me now. Dreamed of a guy with strong hands touching me this tenderly.
But that was then.
Now I see life through jaded eyes, so I know exactly what this is. Lord of the Underworld is trying to trick me into spending eternity burning by his side. No, thanks.
Been there, done that. Got the T-shirt.
“I’m good.” My voice sounds husky, which pisses me off.
His thumb continues its tender assault on my senses. “You sure?”
I know he’s just trying to throw me off. And the sad thing is, it’s freaking working. I nod because I don’t trust my voice.
The corner of his lip ticks up as he plucks the cup from my hand and sets in down on the counter.
The room feels suddenly still and quiet. I turn to see all eyes fixed on us with swooning smiles. Smiles that say they fell hook, line, and sinker for Ben’s little show.
Except for Mrs. Baker whose wearing her usual perm-a-frown. “We don’t have time for no hanky-panky. Plus, everybody knows hanky-panky after coffee causes shingles.”
I place “coffee causing shingles” third on the list of crazy shit Mrs. Baker has said.
Ada shushes her with her hand, her gaze on Ben and me. “You kids don’t pay attention to her. Take as long as you need.”
“I’ll put on another pot,” Josie says from the table with a small secret smile, like “put on another pot” is code for something.
Ben drops his hand from my neck and gives them a soft chuckle that slides across my skin like silk.
“We won’t be long.” He looks down at me and shoots me a playful wink with a crooked smile.
I refuse to notice how sinfully sexy he is.
My ovaries, on the other hand, notice and now demand that I have his babies. I will not picture a Baby Ben snuggled in my arms. Will. Not. Picture. It. Aww, so cute.
“Good lord. You two are gonna start a fire in here looking at each other like that. Go on now,” Ada shoos us to the doorway with a bright smile.
For the record, my eyes on Ben are like frozen orbs of Arctic ice. Just saying.
He chuckles again. My teeth clench. I’m so glad he’s having fun. Just thrilled he finds this all so freaking amusing.
I dig my short fingernails into his biceps to show him just how thrilled I am as we walk out of the kitchen, but it’s like trying to dig your nails into a marble slab. I’m pretty sure I just fractured my pinky.
As soon as we’re out of earshot, I shoot poisoned darts at his profile, my cheek still hot and tingly from his touch.
“You don’t get to touch me like that,” I growl as we walk through the living room. I ignore the twist in my gut from the new furniture, thinking of Rose.
“You touched me first.”
He’s right. I did. “What are you ten?”
“You touch me. I touch you,” he states flatly, still giving me his profile.
I make a show of untangling my arm from his as we reach the hallway. I’m not sure who’s leading who but we both seem to know where we’re going.
“You’re such a man-child.”
This earns me a slide glare. “Says the girl who locked herself in my bedroom.”
My cheeks flush. “You were going to have sexy-time in my bed.”
“Sexy-time?” His face melts into a slow, mocking, grin.
“In my bed,” I say, with a little less bravado while I mentally kick Greg in the nuts for always using that stupid phrase.
“I don’t have ‘sexy-time.’” He states with a wicked glint in his eyes. No, I bet he doesn’t.
I shrug. “Whatever. You know what I mean.” I force a lightness to my voice to show him just how unaffected by him I am.
Totally unaffected. Totally.
By some miracle, we make it down the hall to my room without throttling each other.
As soon as we step inside, safe from prying eyes and ears, I shut the door and spin to face him.
“We need to fix this mess.” I point in the direction of the kitchen, so there’s no mistaking which mess I’m talking about. God knows there’s plenty to choose from. “Now,” I tack on in my most authoritative voice.
“Be my guest.” The bed dips with his weight as he sits on the edge and motions to the door.
Asshole.
“Are you freaking serious?” I close in on him, taking advantage that with him sitting we’re nearly eye-level. “You didn’t think to mention that we aren’t really engaged when you were with them yesterday.”
He crosses his arms over his broad chest, and rakes his teeth over his bottom lip, leveling me with his death glare.
“You really want to talk about yesterday?” The cool menace in his voice knocks me down a few notches.
“I’m just saying, you could have said something…”
“I’m not telling them shit.” His chin tilts down, his jaw ticks, his eyes locked on mine.
It’s a look that I’m sure it would have ninety-percent of regular people running for the hills.
Turns out, I’m not regular. And I’m too freaked-out by the wedding brigade in the kitchen making hanky-panky-coffee to give a shit.
“Well, I’m not telling them.” I cross my arms over my chest, trying to mimic his menacing look.
He narrows his eyes in challenge. “Then I guess we’re getting fake married.”
What in the actual fuck?
“This is ridiculous!” I throw my arms in the air.
“You think?” He exhales, rubbing a hand across his side.
It’s the side of his injury, and I wonder if he’s in pain. I push down the flash of worry that follows. Because Ben is a prick. And I don’t waste my worry-time on pricks.
“Fine. We’ll tell them together,” I concede on an exhale. My shoulders slump remembering the look in Betsy’s eyes. “We can say that we’ve decided to be engaged for a while longer, or something like that.”
I glance at Mrs. Baker’s ring. It feels like an unbearable weight pulling me down through an abyss of bad choices.
Ben’s gaze drops to the floor, his brows knit together like he’s playing out the scenario of breaking the news to Betsy in his mind.
I don’t notice the way his long eyelashes shadow the soft part of his cheek where I pressed my lips. A stark contrast to his rough beard that b
rushed against my chin. How have I never kissed a guy with a beard before? I need to write a bucket list so I can put that at the top.
Kiss a guy with a beard.
Learn how to fence.
Win an Olympic Gold medal in fencing.
Get—
“Nope. You’re on your own.” He stands in an abrupt, swift movement and stalks toward the door, not sparing me a glance.
Hot anger spikes through my chest. My heart pounds. There’s no freaking way I’m going to let him pin this all on me.
I move to block his path. “I didn’t force you to get down on one knee, buddy.” I’m careful to keep my hands to myself, not wanting a repeat of earlier. “You need to man-up and take responsibility.”
“Excuse me?” His eyes blaze.
“You heard me.” I straighten my spine. “This sucks. I get it. But we both made this mess. And we are going to fix it together. Not me. We. Got it?” I step back and raise my chin with my hands on my hips in the Wonder Woman power pose.
“You done?”
My power pose gets crushed beneath his size 12 boots. Yes, I checked the size of his shoes. But not in a weird way.
My hands drop from my hips. “What if they want to see a marriage license?”
“They won’t.”
“Come on. I can’t tell her alone.” I try and keep the plea out of my voice, but it’s there.
“Not my problem.”
He moves to step around me, but this time I grab his arm to stop him, too desperate to make him see reason to care about the “you touch me, I touch you” bullshit.
Time to hit him with an uppercut of reality.
“What happens when the bills start coming in for our fake wedding? Whose problem is it then? I don’t have that kind of money, Ben. How do you think Betsy’s going to feel when I can’t pay for shit, huh?”
I’ve officially reached Defcon 3.
The next stage is me curled up in the fetal position on the floor, my laptop open to a marathon of Kitchen Nightmares.
Ben’s cold gaze holds mine, and I watch the gravity of it all start to penetrate through the ice. His jaw ticks. Then he reaches to pull his wallet from his back pocket.
My eyes widen.
“What are you doing?” I gasp.
“Giving you a credit card.”
Evidently, he only speaks Caveman because he doesn’t seem to understand one single freaking word that’s coming out of my mouth.
“You’re not understanding what I’m saying, Ben.” I throw my hands up. “We’re not ordering takeout! This is a wedding for Christsake!”
His eyes slice from his wallet to me, and I know I’ve made a mistake. “I understand perfectly, Emelia.” His dark eyes are lit with such a scorching fire I have to take a step back. “You’re not going to tell them. And I’m sure as hell not going to be the one to tell Betsy she’s doesn’t get to plan her goddamn dream fucking wedding, so here we are. Getting fucking fake married.”
“We can’t throw a wedding. Even if it’s fake. Think about what you’re saying.”
He ignores me. Surprise, surprise.
“How much do you need?”
Just breathe… In and out. In and out.
“A lot, Ben. Even fake weddings cost thousands of dollars. And then there will be guests. Guests, Ben! Your friends and family. People who think we’re getting married for real.”
Thumbing through his over-stuffed wallet, he mumbles, “Told her you don’t like crowds and to keep it small.”
Why does the fact that he knows that about me make me ache in places I forgot I had?
“Oh.” Is all I can say.
He pulls out a black credit card and holds it out for me to take. “This one doesn’t have a limit. Use it when I’m not with you. Otherwise, I’ll take care of things.”
“Ben—”
“Just take the card.”
I take the card because I can’t think of anything else to say or do that would change his mind. Somehow, holding it makes me feel worse, which I honestly didn’t think was possible.
The fact that he’s willing to pay for a fake wedding just to save poor Betsy from being disappointed is throwing my already rollercoaster emotions for a giant loop-de-loop.
“I’ll try to tell them before I have to use it,” I say, to the black Amex card. I can’t help but think it’s a fancy card for a mechanic. Greg’s mom had one. She made a point to tell me more than once that it was invitation only.
“You do that.” His tone implies he thinks I’m full of shit. Which I probably am, but trying is better than sitting back and doing nothing, right?
He reaches in his front pocket and pulls out a long thin nail. “That’ll unlock the bathrooms.” He hands me the nail, not meeting my eyes.
I don’t know why that bothers me, but it does.
“I got other shit to do today, so hurry it up.” He starts toward the door.
I swallow back a childish retort and instead ask, “Where are we going?”
“Does it matter?” he grumbles while stalking out of the room.
“If it didn’t matter, I wouldn’t ask…jerk,” I say to the empty doorway.
I gather clean clothes (which have moved from the pile to hangers, by the way), choosing a simple peach sweater, dark skinny jeans, and brown high-heeled ankle boots, while promising myself, that somehow I’m going to find a way to fix this.
Then somehow I’m going to survive the rest of this thirty-day prison sentence with Ben.
Then somehow I’m going to find the strength to sign everything over to him and move on with my life. A life that doesn’t include this house.
Because one thing has become clear: This will never be my safe place. Not anymore. Not now that Ben has written himself into every room.
16
Bathroom of Doom
Things I’d rather do than go out to lunch with Ben and the Wedding Brigade:
Vacuum a room full of hidden pennies.
Stub my toe on a freezing morning.
Eat a handful of peanuts while chewing gum.
But here I am, squished next to Ben in a booth meant for four because Mrs. Baker insisted on sitting away from the non-existent draft and next to a window with a view of Main Street.
I set down my menu without really looking at it, and take a sip of my Sprite, distracted by the whirlwind of the last few hours.
Hours spent nodding and smiling like one of the Walking Dead as Betsy decided Ben and I are tying the knot in the backyard—if you can call ten acres a yard—of the farmhouse at dusk. Because, according to Betsy, outdoor weddings are more romantic at sunset.
I zombie-smiled while we strolled through Perfect Petals flower shop where Josie decided on white gardenias (pure love), white and green hydrangeas (enduring beauty), and calla lilies (faithfulness). Apparently, it’s a winning flower combination for a long-lasting happy marriage. Guaranteed.
I even kept my zombie-smile intact while Ben spent the entire time leaning against the back wall with his eyes glued to his phone like he was waiting for the train downtown, and not shopping for a fake wedding.
The only time he wasn’t looking at his phone was when he was paying. Which he did without batting an eye. Which made everything worse.
I’ve never felt like more of a fraud in my life.
The only silver lining, if you could call it that, was the fact nobody asked about my family. Nobody asked who would walk me down the aisle. Who would give me away. Where the Mother of the Bride would sit.
I guess I can thank Mrs. Baker for that one. She grilled me about my life the first time we met. I thought it was because she was protective of Rose. Nope. She’s just nosy.
I told her that my mother had passed and that my dad…Well, I didn’t tell her the truth about that one. She thinks he passed too. Rose believed the same. I hated lying, but this is one truth that I hated more. One truth I never share.
Under the table, Ben’s thigh bumps against mine. It’s not on purpose. He hasn�
�t touched me since the hanky-panky-coffee kitchen incident. Not that I’m complaining.
He also hasn’t so much as looked my way. Not that I’m complaining about that either.
If he keeps icing me out, I won’t have to confess a damn thing to the Wedding Brigade. They’ll figure out on their own that Ben and I are full of shit, and this wedding is a complete sham.
I return Josie’s smile from across the table and turn my gaze out the window, ignoring the warmth radiating from Ben’s body, as I listen to Betsy and Ada try to figure out what to split for lunch. It’s between a club sandwich or a patty melt.
My votes on the patty melt.
Releasing a heavy sigh, I watch people strolling down the sidewalk in their sensible shoes. I always seem to forget these boots double as a medieval torture device until about an hour into wearing them. No amount of cuteness nor perfectly tapered heel is worth this amount of pain. None.
“Are you all ready to order, or do you need more time?”
I turn to the young server standing at our table. She looks like a bright-eyed and bushy-tailed cheerleader, probably working her way through college. I feel a sort of kinship with her, having done the same. Let’s hope she’s better at her job than I was. When her non-jaded eyes reach mine, I push a little extra warmth into my smile.
“You offer senior discounts?” Mrs. Baker barks.
The server, who’s name-tag says Lisa, turns her honey-colored eyes to Mrs. Baker and answers cheerfully, “We do.”
Mrs. Baker’s beady eyes narrow. “How much we looking at?”
Lisa's brightness dulls just a bit.
“Ten percent, I think…” She glances over her shoulder like the answer is written in the air somewhere behind her.
Mrs. Baker scoffs.
Finding myself protective of this chipper version of my past self, my hackles raise. I may not be able to escape the death grip of Darth Vader Dottie, but I can do my best to save Lisa.
I volunteer as Tribute!
“Lunch is on me,” I say to the group, effectively cutting off the beginnings of a Dottie Baker rant. When they start to protest, I hold my hand up with a small smile. “Please, it’s the least I can do.”
Warm smiles of reluctant acceptance shine from across the table.
