“And a difficult wife,” I counter, but there’s no heat in it.
She grins. “You knew what you were getting into.”
Did I? I wonder, watching her tuck a loose strand of hairbehind her ear. When we made this arrangement, I thought I was signing up for six months of strategic alliance with a professional adversary. I didn’t expect this. Whatever this is. Comfortable silence, easy banter, feeling like I’ve known her all my life—and also not at all.
“What?” she asks, catching me staring.
I shake my head, trying to find safer ground. “Nothing. Just…you’re not what I expected.”
“No?” She tilts her head, sending that ponytail swinging hypnotically. “What did you expect?”
“I don’t know. Someone colder, maybe. More calculating.” I shrug, suddenly feeling like I’m navigating a minefield. “The journalist who made three different studio heads cry in one press tour.”
“That was a good day,” she says with a small amount of pride. “They deserved it.”
“I’m sure they did.”
She sets her fork down, her expression turning serious. “What else?”
“What else, what?”
“What else did you expect? About me.” There’s a vulnerability in her question that feels tempting, like we’re venturing into territory beyond our carefully negotiated boundaries.
“I didn’t expect to like you,” I admit, and my honesty surprises even me. “I didn’t expect any of this to feel…”
“Real?” she finishes.
“Yeah.”
She nods slowly, and a smile spreads acrossher face as something genuine reaches her eyes. “You’re not what I expected, either, Carmichael.”
“No?”
“Not even close.”
The tension between us shifts into something electric, something that has nothing to do with our arrangement and everything to do with the woman sitting across from me, a woman who’s brilliant, frustrating, and impossibly compelling.
Suddenly, I’m forced to acknowledge the truth I’ve been avoiding for weeks: somewhere along the way, I’ve started falling for my fake wife in a way that feels alarmingly, inconveniently real.
seventeen
. . .
Jess
It’s almostmidnight by the time I finally crawl into bed. The apartment is quiet. Lucas retreated to his room about an hour ago, claiming he had emails to catch up on. I said something snarky about corporate masochism, but really, I was relieved to have a little solitude.
Not because I didn’t enjoy dinner. The opposite, actually. I enjoyed it too much. It felt too real, like we were breaking rules we’d silently agreed to maintain.
Now the lights are off, the AC is humming, and I’m settling into that delicious place between almost asleep and dreaming when I feel it.
Something brushes my leg. Light. Tickling. Crawling.
I kick off the covers and sit up so fast I nearly punch myself in the face. My heart jackhammers against my ribs as I jump from the bed and slam my hand on the light switch so my eyes can scan the room like I’m searching for an assassin.
There it is. On my comforter. In my bed.
Eight legs. Too many eyes. Way too calm for my liking.
