My parents won’t be able to come up with the money. There’s no way. I’m going to stick to the plan because it’s our only and last resort. What’s the worst that could happen? He’ll have me arrested for impersonating someone who cares.
What’s the best that could happen? I’ll sweet-talk him out of the deal and save the restaurant.
First things first, I sneak down the hall to where he disappeared, passing two closed doors and then one more on the far left that’s cracked open. Opposite it, the door is wide open. The soft glow of a lamp welcomes me into the space, and the sound of the shower behind another door helps soothe my racing heart.
The bed is enormous—the biggest I’ve ever seen—with fluffy covers and large pillows, likely filled with pricey down or memory foam, which disrupts the sterile image I envisioned for his bedroom. Clean lines of the shades at half-mast carry the modern vibe into the room. But it’s the chair and ottoman situated in front of a fireplace that have me wishing to curl up with a good book and waste some hours.
There’s no time for daydreams. I open a door, hoping it’s the closet. Bingo! I start grabbing hangers full of pressed shirts, pants that hang full length under suit jackets, and shove them into one section of the closet. Grabbing foldedshirts and shorts from two shelves, I stacked them into a small cubby that only housed two pairs of shoes. I put those on the floor and then stand back. I snap my fingers. Drawers.
After tugging the top drawer open, I scoop up his neatly tucked and folded underwear—shockingly all black, though I shouldn’t be so surprised—into my arms and then use the toe of my shoe to pull open the bottom drawer. Dropping all the underwear in there. A pair of black boxer briefs falls to the pristine beige carpet, so I grab and stuff it inside with the others before forcing the drawer to close as much as it can.
After one quick scan again, I dash out and close the door behind me. When I hear the bathroom door opening, I jump into the chair and grab the throw pillow to wrap my arms around it like I wasn’t just destroying this man’s closet.
My unexpected presence causes Warner’s forward motion to halt abruptly. “What are you doing in here?”
Looking at him shirtless, some bruising covers his right shoulder, and he has scratches on his chest as well as one on his temple. The bruising hasn’t set in, but the red patches will look nasty by tomorrow. I rub my sweating palms along the soft fabric arms of the chair. “Sitting.”
“I can see that.” His lips twist, giving me the slightest glimpse into seeing his foundation shaken. “Do you mind helping me with this?”
My eyes pivot to the trash bag wrapped around his arm and a tie he was attempting to use to hold it up. “Sure, but the shower will ruin the tie. Do you have a rubber band?”
“Not that I know of.Do we?” Why does he make it sound like he knows I’m lying? There is no reason this man would put up with shenanigans, so I really don’t think he’s playingalong. What would he have to gain from doing so? Nothing but a good time, I suppose.
I get up and come around the back of the chair toward him. “I’m sure they’re hidden in the junk drawer somewhere.”
“What’s a junk drawer?”
I stop and shake my head. Everyone has a junk drawer. This guy doesn’t? He probably thinks he’s too good for one. “Never mind. I have one.” I dig around inside my purse and find a hair elastic. Holding it up, I say, “This will work.”
I toss the tie on the bed. His eyes follow it as it slides off the side to the floor. That’s how I discover a certain someone has a case of perfectionism.Noted. I’m starting to find joy in the little irritations I cause him.
“Why are you still wearing your purse like you’re a guest in your own apartment?”
Sliding the elastic into place, I pop it against the bag wrapped around his bicep. “There you go. All set.” Nothing like causing a distraction from questions I really have no answer to. When he winces, I grab for his chest, resting my hands gently on top. “Oh my God. I’m so sorry. I totally forgot.”
“You forgot I’m injured? I’m only asking for your help because I’m injured. You’re only standing in this apartment because I’m injured. I—” He tosses his head back and takes a deep breath before sliding his bag-free hand over his face. When he looks back at me, he says, “I’m going to shower now.”
“Okay.” I sound weak like a mouse in the wake of the anger he’s holding back. When the bathroom door closes, I stand there until I hear the disruption in the sound of the water as he moves under the spray.
“What are you doing, Delaney?” I’ve asked myself this amillion times since I met this man yesterday. One rash decision has led to a series of irrational ideas. I’m probably only making things worse.
I gaze down at my ruined dress, aware that the right thing to do would be to leave. Get out now before I dig this grave any deeper.
Starting back down the hall, I enter the living space and soak in a much-needed breath. I have about five minutes to make a final decision on what’s best to do in this situation. I’m realizing that I’m not going to be able to trick him into thinking we’re married. I can tell he doesn’t even believe it now. How will I drag this out for another month?
The answer is right in front of me. It has been all along. The decision was already made.By him.
I look around once more, glad I got to see how the others live. He can keep his beautiful palace in the sky and rule over his company like a king. That doesn’t make my life worth less than his, although it does make me wish the good guys could win. But not all fairy tales have happy endings.
CHAPTER 6
Warner
I blink twice,adding a third slow blink for good measure.
Surely, this can’t be real. I have a concussion, so I must be seeing things. I back out of the closet, close the door, and count to five before opening it again. It’s still the same—a fucking mess. But it makes no sense. How would it get like this?
I open the top drawer to find it empty. Am I losing my mind? Looking lower, I see the bottom drawer sticking out, so I open it to find everything from the top drawer shoved inside it without care. Nothing is folded. Nothing is organized. There’s just a mess of black cotton crowding the drawer. Irritation spirals through me, causing my head to ache more than it already did. I work on a pair of boxer briefs, cursing myself for choosing underwear that’s difficult to get into, and then start searching for my other clothes.
