Now I bet she’ll shoo me away back to the city. Where I will read every single syllable of the spreadsheet she sent. Whenever the next activity comes, I’ll be ready.
17
JANIE
Samantha: First rule of being married to a billionaire: DO NOT CHECK THE TABLOIDS!!!!
Kat: First rule of hitching your wagon to a billionaire: DO NOT READ THE TRASH RAGS. Those “journalists” should take a ride to the Train Station, if you know what I mean.
No, I don’t know what she means. But she has a few small-town phrases I don’t understand. One thing is painfully clear.
I need to check the tabloids.
I swivel in my kitchen chair from my breakfast to my open laptop with last night’s number-crunchin-sesh still pulled up. I open a new tab and dare to google “Benedict Clark.”
Trouble in Paradise Already?
No Honeymoon for These Two!
The Billionaire and the B*itch: A Cautionary Tale…
Okay, that last one stings but…wow. The photos.
Why do I look so angry? Was I that angry? All the tendons in my neck are pulled so tight, my neck looks like pulled noodles.
Big yikes.
And, I mean, did I yell the entire time? Where are the smiling moments from the beginning? What about the almost-kiss?
I take a deep breath.
Chills break out all over my skin.
As much as I’d like to blame the temperature in this 1950s era brownstone—thanks Gran for never fixing your million-year-old-radiator—I don’t think it’s that. I think it’s my body’s memory of how time slowed down and the world faded away and it was just me and Benedict and those deep blue eyes that were scanning me, studying me. It was like I was naked, body and soul, and he wanted to see every single centimeter.
It was suddenly, unbearably, unbelievably hot. I am not used to him like that, calm and attentive. Still, focused. A little angry. He’s so energetic, always laughing, joking, bouncing around. I bet he doesn’t even need caffeine like I do. But in that moment, it was like he was frozen.
And I was freaking melting in his hands.
I’m not sure what was hotter, the head-holding with a side of tender-thumb-wiping or the moment he lurched in between me and the nail gun like he was a knight defending my very life.
Ugh.
This is bad.
I cannot think my temporary husband is hot.
Temporary, Janie, temporary!
Not to mention, he’s an infamous player. Charmers gonna charm. Love bomb, then get bored. I have lived this over and over. He admitted it himself. He was just acting for the group of photographers. Which is why he asked to kiss me in the first place.For show.
My phone starts buzzing. I know at the sound I won’t be able to eat any more breakfast. The texts have slowed, but not stopped. Even though I know it’s probably my friends, the rapid buzzing in succession is a huge trigger now.
I can’t look. Later I’ll get back to Sam and Kat and probably my pretend husband himself. And there’s one message I’d risk looking at my phone for. Ugh, how I’d love Skye to send me a message right now that cuts through the crap like we used to with each other. A screenshot of my angry noodle neck with WTF written over it would be perfect right now.
But she won’t.
I inhale and decide to read the worst-looking article.
