by C. C. Piper
He lifted his glass to take a sip of water. “I did.”
“Don’t you think that the teeniest bit… excessive?”
He shrugged. “This is our first date. I wanted you to feel comfortable.”
“But it’s not an actual date,” I said, my inner bitch revealing herself once more. Down, girl.
And now his smile was gone as if he’d never worn one. Shit.
Still, after taking an audible breath, he tried again. “I remember you saying you’re a fan of Chardonnay. Would you like some? I promise you can order it yourself.”
Charming. The dude was charming. “I’m surprised you remember anything I said that night,” I admitted.
“Me too, to be honest,” he said sheepishly. I was surprised to find a laugh pulled out of me.
This was easy, dammit. This was too easy. He’d slipped past my barriers without permission. Just like he had…
I shut that thought down instantly. I’d drifted into some weird danger zone. While I needed to be polite, I had to keep my head above water with this man. I was bound and determined to do just that.
Now, if I could just manage to strike the appropriate balance.
He remained a gentleman during the entirety of our meal. I didn’t know why he wasn’t actively voicing his displeasure since I was supposed to be his designated “companion” for the evening, but I appreciated it, nonetheless.
One thing did baffle me, however. Why did a man like James think he needed a female companion or escort anyway? He could probably get a date with one of those panty-dropping smiles in a New York minute.
Which reminded me…
I couldn’t seem to find the nerve to ask until we were back in the car, headed out of Las Vegas and back to Henderson, but ultimately, I put my big girl pants on.
“So, I’ve been wondering. Did we… I mean, did you and I… Um, you know?”
His eyes sparkled in the dim light of the car’s backseat, his fingers sifting through the scruff on his cheek. I’d scratched along that scruff and knew exactly how it felt against the tender skin of my throat. “I’m sorry?”
Don’t tell me he couldn’t pick up what I was putting down.
“Did we sleep together?” I asked in irritation. “On that night.”
“Ah.” He gave me a soft smile instead. “Sleep, yes. Engage in other extracurricular activities, no. So if you’ve been worrying, you can relax.”
I frowned. Considering our level of intoxication and the fact that we’d just gotten married, that didn’t sound plausible.
“No sex? Are you for real?”
“I’m for real, sad to say,” he confirmed. “We kissed like a couple of hormonal teenagers, but then you wanted to celebrate with, and I quote, ‘romantic snacks.’ So once we got to my villa, I grabbed a bottle of champagne and some grapes from the fridge.”
“I did not say that!” I snorted out a laugh, and he followed suit. God, that laugh of his. The way it made his eyes crinkle at the corners. The way his Adam’s apple bobbed. I’d loved hearing that laugh. The throaty masculine sound of it. I knew he made a similar throaty sound when he groaned in pleasure too.
Stop it, Emma.
“Swear to God,” he said, placing an open palm to his heart.
I squinted at him in suspicion. “Then what happened?”
“Well, we went to the bedroom. I left for just a second to splash some cold water on my face.” He paused for effect. “But when I came out, you were snoring.”
“I was not!” The image was so silly I couldn’t help but laugh again. Who falls asleep on their wedding night? Even when it’s a fake one? “Are you yanking my chain right now?”
“Wish I was. Believe me, the disappointment still burns.”
I mulled this new information over in my head. A new thought occurred to me.
“So, wait… If we didn’t consummate the marriage, it shouldn’t be hard to obtain an annulment, right?”
He sobered up instantly, but he didn’t look mad. Just somber for some reason I couldn’t pinpoint.
“No,” he admitted. “Obtaining an annulment shouldn’t be an issue. Once your five months with me are up, we’ll go together and take care of the paperwork.”
“Why not now?” Surely, he couldn’t want to be legally bound to a stranger any more than I did.
His eyes went flat. “It’s the only leverage I have to make sure you keep up your end of the deal.”
Ire leaped inside of me, and I almost snapped at him that my word was gold. But then it occurred to me that I had left him alone and fifty-thousand dollars less wealthy within twelve hours of saying, “I do.”
Wedding vows were supposed to be promises made in good faith. They were supposed to be sacred and taken with the understanding that each party loved, respected, and trusted one another. And even though I’d had important reasons for doing it, I’d “married” this man under false pretenses. I’d not only lied to James, I’d stolen from him. I’d broken his trust not once but twice.
I deserved far worse than what he asked of me.
Still, even though I might deserve to be punished, I couldn’t let this thing with James hinder my ability to watch over Evan. After all, my brother was the reason behind this whole debacle to begin with. If I failed him, I would never forgive myself. Especially not when he appeared to be turning over a new leaf.
“Speaking of which...” I pushed ahead, keeping my voice cool and level so I wouldn’t expose how guilty I felt. “I’m gonna need some leverage, too.”
His lips twitched downwards. “What do you mean?”
“Well, I need to know how many dates we’re looking at here. Once a week? Twice? What’s our final tally going to be?” I met his inquisitive gaze head-on.
He tilted that chin of his upwards for a moment as he regarded the beams of the ceiling. “Fair enough,” he said, surprising me. I’d been anticipating an argument. “Let’s say twice a week. Five months equal roughly twenty weeks, so it’d be forty dates altogether.”
“What if we end up hitting the forty mark before the full five months are over?”
He raised an eyebrow at me. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear he was impressed. “You’re quite the negotiator. Tell you what, it’ll be whichever comes first. Five months or forty dates. How does that sound?”
“Fine,” I agreed, feeling a bit triumphant.
Now, I just had to get through this without making a fool of myself.
7
James
I didn’t expect our evening together to go as splendidly as I would’ve preferred and it didn’t.
I was fully aware that this wasn’t an ideal arrangement for either of us and she’d gone out of her way to ward off all my attempts to establish real communication between us. If I had even a smidgen of self-preservation, I would get the damn annulment which would let each of us go our separate ways. I would cut my losses, move on, and never look back.
And, popular opinion—i.e. Richard’s and Mauricio’s—stated that if I had any common sense whatsoever, I would also contact the authorities.
But I wasn’t prepared to do any of those things. I wasn’t prepared to say goodbye to Emma, and I wasn’t going to call the police on someone who was trying to help a loved one, no matter how bad a choice they’d made in order to do it.
So I remained saddled with this so-certifiable-I-could-wind-up-in-a-padded-cell plan of mine.
It was not going well.
We went on two more dinner “dates,” for lack of a better word. Each floundered as badly as the first. In fact, things only grew more awkward between us. On our first date, glimpses of the Emma Morris I’d met at The Oleander had shone through from time to time—a laugh here, a spontaneous smile there.
But not anymore. It wasn’t that she was nasty or anything, it was just that Emma refused to give me even the most minimal kind of leeway. I didn’t know what to do.
It wasn’t like I expected her to fall in love with me, but I would’ve thought she m
ight thaw towards me some. Instead, she seemed to become even more detached every time. More distant until I didn’t know how to reach her. I’d now spent hours trying to bring out that sought-after laughter once again, but to no avail.
I cared about making our odd arrangement as pleasant and workable as possible for both of us, but that didn’t mean I was a saint. Even my patience was limited, and I reached my limit on the evening of our fourth dinner together.
The food was incredible, the ambiance spectacular. I’d taken Emma to Campanile again, because I also needed to feel secure and at ease and no other restaurant in Las Vegas did that for me in the same, deep-rooted way.
I tried to keep the conversation alive, but Emma seemed more distracted and faraway than ever. Rather than speak, she’d make noncommittal noises and offered me nothing but one-word answers. Her alluring fragrance of citrusy sweetness only served to annoy me further since I would likely never have permission to get close enough to her to inhale it deeply again.
So, after yet another failed attempt at engagement, I did something I rarely do.
I lost my temper.
“You could at least act like we’re friends, you know.”
I regretted the words almost as soon as they were out of my mouth. Her eyes left her plate and lurched up to mine, fire blazing hot behind them.
“We’re not friends, James.” She all but rolled her eyes at me. She didn’t, but it was a close thing. “And I’m not going to pretend we are.”
A few weeks ago, I’d believed that Emma had spunk. That she was witty and fun. Now, I saw that it wasn’t spunk that I’d noticed but something far more abrasive. I hated how hopeless my prospects with her were.
“Listen to me, please,” I said. “I’m not saying we have to pretend like we’re happily married, but we could at least try to enjoy one another’s company while we share this excellent meal.”
“But it’s only a charade,” she said, taking a sip from her wine glass. “We can pretend until we’re blue in the face, but the fact of the matter is, you’re never going to get to know me. I’m not interested in you gaining any access to my personal life. I’m here to repay what I owe you. That’s it.”
I saw a flash of emotion from Emma, but the telltale signs of her true feelings faded before I could identify them. Rather than learning to read her better, I’d only caused her to increase the intensity of her shields. She hid from me continually, not giving an inch. And now, finally, it’d pissed me off.
“Fine,” I bit out, only narrowly keeping my voice from a full yell. “Let’s just finish eating and call it a night, then.”
I shoved forkful after forkful of lemon fettuccine into my mouth. I knew Emma had a point; this wasn’t going to work out. As much as I admired her strength, I couldn’t take much more of this.
I allowed us to both sulk in silence, as unfulfilling as that was. Not another word was spoken until my phone rang halfway through dessert, the display showing me the name of Kyle Forman, owner of The Oleander Casino.
“I have to take this,” I said, already rising from the table. “I’ll have them pack up your leftovers so Charlie can take you home.”
She blinked, frowning up at me. “What about you?”
“You don’t care about my transportation needs,” I said, waving her off.
I hadn’t meant this to come out as petty as it probably sounded. I’d stated this as the fact I knew it to be, but Emma jerked back as if I’d backhanded her.
For one shining second all her barricades dropped, and I found myself peering at the honest to God, authentic Emma. And that woman didn’t shut herself off from me, she seemed genuinely interested in my welfare.
After the second passed, her walls went right back up, but I couldn’t forget what I’d seen. Instead, I hurried off, feeling better about what I’d set out to do.
Maybe, just maybe, there was hope for us yet.
8
Emma
I didn’t hear from James for two weeks. This didn’t mean, however, that I was naïve enough to lull myself into a false sense of security or into believing he might have decided to put an early end to our arrangement.
In actuality, I had no idea how to interpret his alteration of tactics.
When the call came, I received less notice than ever before. The car was parked in front of my house when I drove back in after a meeting with my latest client, which incensed me. Did James have no boundaries? How dare he infringe on the time I needed to maintain my business pursuits.
I was so livid I didn’t even bother to park in my driveway. Instead, I just pulled up next to the curb and jumped out, my briefcase thrown haphazardly across my shoulder and too many folders to count under my arm as I slammed the vehicle’s door shut.
Charlie was leaning against the driver’s side of the gleaming black town car, head thrown back as he drank from an insulated mug. I strode up to him and planted myself firmly in front of his six-foot-plus frame.
He peeked down at me with an amused grin on his face. Why were he and Kevin always so goddamn smug? “Good evening, Ms. Morris.”
“Don’t give me that,” I grumbled at him. “I’m not going anywhere with you tonight. I have stuff to do.” I gestured wildly at my armful of folders.
He took another lengthy swallow and I caught a whiff of the potent smell of coffee.
“I’m afraid you’re going to have to pull some all-nighters later on then.”
“Just tell him I’m busy and can’t put this off.” I made to stomp around him, but he stepped right in front of me. I eyed James’ hired man with disdain. “What, your boss is switching to threats now?”
“No threat,” Charlie said, lifting both palms in surrender. “But I do have orders I cannot disobey, and you do have certain requirements to meet.”
I didn’t say respond. I didn’t have to. Charlie must have caught the meaning in my extremely put-out expression, because he smiled affably at me and opened the door to the backseat.
I slid in with a huff, the folders creating a stack in my lap.
“You know, you could at least park somewhere else,” I said as he nudged the accelerator. “People know me here. I don’t want them asking questions.”
He glanced briefly at me through the rearview mirror. “Noted. I’ll pick you up down the block from now on.”
I sincerely doubted that he meant it.
Halfway through the ride, it occurred to me that I was wearing jeans, sneakers, and an oversized white t-shirt. I wasn’t sure that was high-end restaurant material as far as outfits were concerned.
But we weren’t headed to a restaurant. Instead, Charlie took me to the familiar villa on the outskirts of the Las Vegas desert. When I walked inside, it was to the sounds of jazz music playing somewhere in the background and the clang of pots and pans nearby.
“James?” I called out, uncertain.
“In the kitchen!”
I moved in that direction. The first time I’d been in this house, I’d been awed by the professional level of the kitchen appliances, but I’d figured some sort of in-house cook would handle the daily meal preparation. Instead, here James was, bounding about the room without hesitation, hips swinging with the jazz playing from the Bluetooth speaker on the counter.
An aroma wafted toward me. It smelled savory, like beef roasted on a grill, but there were other scents present, too. The heady bouquet of simmering garlic and butter came next, and the growl that issued from my stomach was embarrassing.
To distract myself from my hunger, I took in the scene. James was wearing black sweatpants and a navy t-shirt, brandishing a ladle in his left hand and a knife in his right as he pivoted around to face me. He threw a grin in my direction, one almost childlike in nature, and it occurred to me that this was the most mellow and carefree I’d ever seen him.
“Welcome,” he said. “There’s wine in the fridge and mushrooms to chop on the island.”
I was so stunned, it didn’t even occur to me to protest his suggestion.
Instead, I took up both invitations, pouring the Chardonnay into two stemless glasses before taking up a paring knife from his butcher block to tend to the mushrooms.
“So… um… Want to tell me what we’re doing here?” I asked after I’d taken an invigorating sip of the wine. I watched as he continued to fiddle with whatever was simmering on the burners.
“We are making a home-cooked dinner,” he said, looking at me over his shoulder. “No more restaurants for a while. I figured a more intimate setting might make us both less edgy. Cooking will give us something to do if we don’t feel like talking. Besides, steak is my comfort food.”
“Okaaaay,” I said, stretching the word out. “Has anyone ever told you that you are a particularly odd man?”
He laughed. “Yeah, well. On occasion. Tell me something I don’t know.”
“Well, you don’t seem to know that steak is a weird comfort food.”
“What do you suggest?”
“Mashed potatoes and gravy, of course. Duh.”
James winked at me in response. He also remained as good as his word. We only spoke when we felt like it and as the need developed organically. The rest of the prep work was done in relative quiet, and it felt bizarrely congenial.
By the time we sat down to eat, I felt more relaxed than I had since we’d agreed to uphold our peculiar bargain.
“I didn’t know you had any special kitchen skills,” I said as I cut out a bite of my flawlessly grilled filet mignon.
He smirked at me, pleased. “Well, I should. I’m a chef.”
I blinked. “You are? I thought…” I trailed off.
He smiled knowingly. “You thought I was just some rich dude making business deals.”
I chuckled nervously. I briefly wondered why I felt so nervous to begin with. I told myself the butterflies that fluttered in my stomach must just be the same pangs of hunger I’d experienced earlier. “Something like that, yes.”
“I’m a chef before anything else,” he said. “Always have been. I started making desserts with my mom when I was four. I went to culinary school first, then business school to learn how to manage the restaurant I wanted to open. Now it’s become an established chain with several high-end locations all over the world.”
