“It’s no problem,” Lincoln says, rising from the table, and I mentally count how many awkward apologies we’ve shared between us since I walked in here mere minutes ago.
Cameron says a shy good night before he lets his Dad usher him off to get ready for bed.
I finish my meal alone, and when I’m done, I tidy up the kitchen. Lincoln’s house is clean. The kind of clean you see in decor magazines with spotless counters and floors you could probably eat off of. A far cry from the cluttered and chaotic shoebox I shared with Laney. I get a rush of anxiety, telling me I don’t fit here.
But I remind myself that this is just temporary. It’s short-term. I can survive this in the short-term.
Then, with my heart in my throat, I climb the stairs on wobbly feet. Lincoln and Cameron are in the bathroom. I can hear the splashing water and there’s dim light bleeding from beneath the door.
I hurry past and go to the bedroom with every intention of quickly digging through my garbage bags for some pajamas and hopefully a blanket, so I can be on the couch pretending to be asleep before Lincoln is ready for bed.
But the scent of his cologne lingers in the air, screwing with my head and distracting me. In a daze, I dig through my mess of garbage bags, dropping clothes all over the floor, and I can’t seem to find what I’m looking for. Usually, I’d just sleep naked, but that doesn’t seem appropriate given my new housemates.
I know I’ve run out of time when I hear footsteps behind me. I turn around from where I’m bent over digging around and I find Lincoln standing there, his wide shoulders crowding the narrow doorframe.
His hair is still perfectly combed. But his white button down is untucked and rumpled after a long day. The sleeves are rolled back. He looks like a corporate sex god.
A corporate sex god who’s blatantly staring at my ass.
He quickly looks away.
“Hey…” he says quietly.
“Hey…” I respond, sounding squeaky and small. I quickly shove everything back into one garbage bag.
His eyes flash to the bed. Mine follow suit.
I speak up quickly, a pair of pajamas gripped in my hand. “I, uh, I’ll sleep on the couch. Do you have some extra linens I can use?”
He takes a firm step forward. “Jules, you’re not sleeping on the couch.”
“Well, I’m definitely not sleeping in here with you,” I say defensively. “Do I have to remind you of our contract?”
He rolls his eyes. “No, you don’t have to remind me of the contract. I remember clause four very well.” Then he mutters something that sounds like, “Clause four tortures my mind night and day.”
“What?” I mumble.
“Nothing.” He shakes his head. “Look—I’ll sleep on the couch.”
“You don’t have to do that. This is your house. I don’t mind taking the couch.”
He frowns at me. “Jules, I did not ask you to leave your apartment with your own bed so you can come and curl up on my couch. It’s not fair.”
I argue back. “Not fair? Barging into your house and stealing your bed would be unfair.”
“My mother raised me right. I’m not going to let a lady be uncomfortable in my home.”
“I’m smaller than you. If you’re squeezing your gigantic butt onto that couch every night, you’ll be waking up with back pain every day.”
Exasperation comes over his face. He takes one firm footstep at a time in my direction, each word punctuated by a solid stomp. “I. Will. Sleep. On. The. Couch.” He reaches out, startlingme when he brushes my hair out of my eyes. “And you, my wife-to-be, will sleep in my bed.”
I grumble under my breath, hating being bossed around. If this is what marriage really is, scratch my name off the list. As soon as I get my trust fund payout.
“Fine, you miserable man,” I grind through my teeth.
A pleased smirk crosses his face. “Good girl.”
I growl, hating the shiver of arousal that radiates through me. “I’m no one’s good girl, Lincoln Raines,” I say through a tight jaw.
