The disappointment is sharp. She rubs her thumb absently against my shirt, soft circles that could have me rock hard in under a minute.
“Later,” she adds quietly. “Okay?”
“Okay,” I answer. “But, we are supposed to be married.” I catch her smile, and it’s sly now, shimmering with private mischief. The sight of it unties something in my groin.
“We are,” she says. “But even fake wives have boundaries.”
I nod. “Yeah, and I can’t wait to test them.” I let my thumb linger on her cheek. She doesn’t move away.
Just as Harper and I finish packing up our snow globe, something red and glitter-covered comes barreling toward our table like a holiday missile.
Mayor Janice, of course. She appears out of nowhere.
“Oh, WONDERFUL!” she crows, grabbing the snow globe straight out of Harper’s hands before either of us can stop her. “A perfect representation of your blossoming maritalsynergy!”
She tilts it too far. Way too far. Harper gasps. I lunge, catching the base just before the entire thing slips from her hands and explodes into a thousand tiny heartbreaks.
“Careful,” I grit out.
Janice waves dismissively. “Teamwork! See? That right there is maritalharmony.You two are practically glowing.”
I stare at her. I am absolutely not glowing. I am one poorly-timed comment away from walking into the woods with Harper and never returning.
Janice pats my arm like I’m a child who just learned to tie his shoes. “Don’t forget — cocoa tasting in fifteen minutes! We can’t have our Holiday Bride couple keeping the town waiting!”
She breezes off in a swirl of peppermint perfume and administrative purpose. Harper laughs under her breath. I tighten my grip on the snow globe so I don’t tighten it around the nearest object.
“I might actually barricade the door tonight,” I mutter.
Harper smiles up at me. We pick up the globe, walking toward the exit with the little piece of us held between both our hands.
That’s when it hits me — painfully and irrevocably. I don’t want this week to end. Not at all.
Chapter 17
Harper
TheCouples’ Cocoa Tastingis held in a circle of cute little booths draped in garlands, twinkle lights, and obnoxiously oversized peppermint sticks. In any other situation, I’d be buzzing with excitement.
But right now? I’m buzzing because Ethan Kinkaid keeps squeezing my hand. I suppose we really do look like newlyweds to some of the crowd who would not know better.
We walk side by side, moving from booth to booth. The crowd is lively, carolers are singing, and the evening air is crisp, but tolerable. Ethan stays close, the heat from his body transferring to mine from time to time.
“This one has cinnamon and chili powder,” the first vendor announces.
I take a cup. Ethan takes one. We sip. My eyes water instantly. “It’s spicy!”
Ethan raises a brow. “Where?”
I gape at him. “On my tongue!”
He just sips again like he’s drinking warm milk. Mountain men are built from different materials. We move to the next booth. This vendor is young, pretty, and very … polished. She’s wearing a red scarf that frames her neck like an art installation, and when she sees Ethan, her eyes widen a little too much.
“Ohhh,” she says, leaning forward. “You must be the Holiday Bride couple. You two are adorable.”
Ethan grunts. It’s his polite version of leave me out of this. But she doesn’t leave him out. She hands me a cup … then steps closer and places a cup directly in his hands, closing her fingers around his just a moment too long.
I feel it. A spike of heat that flares sharply within me. It’s unexpected, but I suppose after last night what else could I feel but jealousy. Me? Jealous? I don’t get jealous. Over men I’m fake married to? Even if he was the first person in recorded history to make me come with a single word? Apparently.
