"That might be too tight. Your hand looks slightly hued compared to your other."
Now she acts like she gives a damn. Hot and cold this woman is. I'm beginning to think her mood swings are intentional. She knows she's driving me crazy and enjoys watching every second of my suffering.
"It'll be fine," I say, taking a long drink of the whiskey Mateo handed me.
She nods toward the wall. "I'm going to look at the paintings. You should mingle and find out who these people are. If they're invited to dinner, they're likely important to Dar."
The conversation flows easily enough. A few of the men in attendance work on the ranch, and the other two couples are friends staying in town for the week. They've already recommended a few must-see destinations for us if we decide to extend our stay. I'm halfway through the story about our drive up when I see him again—the man who was on the porch this morning. The same one I could have sworn I felt watching me through the windows and across the garden.
He has that same stillness, but in the light, I can see his presence isn't as ominous as I originally thought. He can't be much older than me. Late twenties max, but with the shadows gone, there's something else I notice. He was never watching me. He was watching her.
I've just put the two together when I watch him stalk across the room to where Asha is standing beside one of the women visiting Dar on holiday. My hand tightens around my glass, and then my feet are moving.
"Excuse me, but I was curious if we’ve met before?” I hear him ask as I close the distance.
That's it. That's his pick-up line?
Asha's eyes narrow on him, and she takes a second to collect his features. "I don't think so, but you do feel oddly familiar."
"What's your name?" he presses.
"Asha," she answers. I instantly hate how she doesn't add my name to hers.
"Asha…" He draws her name out slowly. "Is it just Asha, or do you have a last name?"
"Hale. Her last name is Hale," I answer for her, stepping up to her back and eliminating any space that remained between us.
Fuck, wrong move. I'm instantly aware of the curve of her round ass pressed firmly against my groin. Every logical thought tells me to step aside and reposition myself. I'm supposed to be immune to my fake wife, but she can already feel that I'm not, and I'm about three seconds away from remembering why I need to be.
CHAPTER SEVEN
ASHA
His warmth hits me before anything else. Then he's against me, his chest to my back, so damn close. Every inch of space I'd maintained all evening…gone. His hand slides around my waist possessively, and I have to remind myself to breathe, to stay relaxed and not stiffen, even though every nerve is screamingThis isn't us!
"Yes, sorry. I'm still getting used to saying my new last name." The lie comes out smooth, easier than expected, given the way my thoughts are torn between his touch and the man standing in front of me. "This trip is somewhat doubling as our honeymoon. In fact, we left our reception to come here."
The man's eyes flick up over my shoulder, and something shifts in his expression. It could be hesitation, but it looks like suspicion. His gaze lingers on Trigger like he's trying to decide if he buys what we're selling.
I use the moment to actuallylookat him. Mid-twenties, maybe twenty-eight at most. Handsome in that effortless way some men are, sharp jawline, warm brown skin, dark eyes, and black hair. He looks like me—or we share the same roots,anyway. It's not every day I run into someone with Indian heritage. Maybe that's why he asked if we'd met before. We have the same skin. It has to be what's making him do a double-take, wondering if there's a connection he's forgotten.
His attention returns to me, and I realize I've been staring a second too long.
"Congratulations," he says, his tone polite, even though his smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. "This is quite the honeymoon choice,” he offers, but the sarcasm is noted.
Trigger's fingers tighten at my hip, brief and deliberate. Right, I'm here for him. I have a job.
"I didn't catch your name," I say, keeping my voice light and curious.
"Rohan." No last name. No elaboration. His gaze drifts back to Trigger.
"Rohan, this is my husband?—"
"Trigger," my new husband cuts me off, extending his hand in greeting while keeping the other firmly locked around my waist.
Rohan's eyes drop to his bandaged hand at my hip. "Already allergic to wearing your wedding ring?"
The comment hangs in the air, pointed and just shy of rude.
