JULIET
Ihave no idea what is going on or why I should wear his clothes.
I have a few closets full, courtesy of Carolyn. Rows upon rows of designer labels, silks and satins that could outfit a queen for a lifetime. The thought spins in my head as we walk hand in hand down the hallway. His grip feels firm and warm, sending little sparks up my arm. My pulse skitters despite the morning calm.
Is this some test, or a way to pull me closer into this role I'm playing? But then it hits me—maybe it's a sentimental thing. A husband's gesture to wrap his wife in something of his. Intimate and possessive in a way that makes my chest tighten with unexpected warmth. I decide to bask in it. Letting the idea settle like a soft blanket over my nerves. Appreciating the novelty of this domestic pull, even if it's built on lies. God, it feels good, this pretend closeness. A dangerous indulgence that I know I should resist but simply can't.
Not when his thumb brushes my knuckles in that absent way.
Stirring heat low in my belly.
We arrive at his suite of rooms, and the door swings open with a soft click under his hand. The space unfolds before me, fitting him so perfectly it's like stepping into his essence. Moody colors dominate—deep charcoals and navies on the walls. Accented with sleek black leather armchairs. The king-sized bed draped in crisp gray linens that look almost austere, is untouched. Chrome accents gleam—the bedside lamps with their minimalist bases, the frame of the massive mirror over the dresser, even the glimpse of the hardware on the built-in wardrobes in the walk-in closet. A single abstract painting in brooding colors hangs above the headboard, and a couple of books on finance sit on the nightstand.
The space has a modern, uncluttered edge. No clutter. Just elegant, clean simplicity. Him all over. Controlled, powerful, without excess.
The air is scented faintly with his cologne—that rich tobacco and citrus blend that clings to everything. It's sleek just like him. Making my heart thud a little harder as I step inside. Feeling like an intruder in this masculine sanctuary.
As confidently as I can, I head into his closet. The automatic lights flicker on with a soft hum as I cross the threshold. Revealing a space that's all tailored precision. Filled with suits, rows of crisp shirts in whites and blues hang like soldiers. Leather belts coil on shelves. Italian loafers polished to a shine on custom racks. The air is rich with the scent of cedar from the built-in drawers and fine calfskin from the accessories. It's overwhelming, this glimpse into his rarefied world. So ordered and luxurious. It’s making me feel small, guilty, yet thrilled. I am the imposter. The real Carolyn wants him back in just over two months.
My fingers trail over a cashmere sweater.
He steps up behind me.
He takes me to a drawer, and pulls it open with a smooth glide, to reveal neatly folded boxer briefs in black, white, and gray. Soft cotton blends that look invitingly comfortable. He retrieves a pair, along with one of his shirts—a light blue button-down. Gently, he unties my robe and lets it slip down my shoulders and land on the floor. The air is cool on my bare skin. His glittering gaze runs over my naked body greedily. My cheeks burn. As if unable to help himself, his fingers reach out and lightly touch my nipples.
I gasp with the intense desire that fills my body.
“I made Eggs Benedict for you,” he whispers.
“Then I must eat them,” I whisper back.
He sighs and lets his hand drop away. “Yes. They’ll get cold.”
The fabric is smooth and worn just enough to feel lived-in. The boxer briefs slide up my thighs, loose and sit baggily around my hips. I roll the waistband down a touch. The shirt hangs long like a dress. He rolls the sleeves for me. I float inside them, the fabric soft and scented with him. Enveloping me in his essence. It sparks an unbelievable feeling of pure joy. A giggle bubbles up unbidden as I twirl once. The hem flares around my thighs.
I feel incredibly comfortable. His clothes are loose and freeing in a way the real Carolyn's wardrobe never is. "This feels... nice. Like how a properly lazy Sunday should be."
"Time for you to rate my cooking," he says, his voice low and amused.
He extends his hand, and I take it. We are in the corridor when we hear Freya shout. “I’m back.” We look at each other. “I’ll make you eggs another day. It’s probably cold by now, anyway.”
We head down, smiling at our own good fortune, our fingers interlaced, his palm strong and warm against mine. The sensation of coming down the stairs as if we really are a couple sends little thrills up my arm.
Freya is waiting impatiently at the bottom of the stairs. “It is Pancake Sunday. Are we having pancakes with blueberries?” she demands, her hands on her hips.
“Didn’t you have breakfast at Lily’s?” Blake asks.
“No. I was saving myself for blueberry pancakes. It’s Sunday,” she explains as though it is the most obvious thing in the world.
I laugh. “Blueberry pancakes it is then. I’ll make them.”
“And maple syrup.”
“Wouldn’t be the same without maple syrup,” I agree solemnly.
Blake hauls his daughter into his arms and hoists her onto his shoulder. She squeals with delight and rests her hands on the top of his head. In the kitchen, morning light dances across the granite island. I set to work. I already know where everything is from last night.
While I cook, Freya chatters to her father about her night at Lily’s house.
