I follow here to the next area — a room with a full bar, pool table, and six huge leather chairs. Next, to the three furnished bedrooms — one with a king size, one with two queens, and another with a toddler bed and cute play teepee. It’s actually pretty nice. Lyla takes a deep breath and turns around to head downstairs, back to my bedroom. She walks past the bed, toward the sitting area with the bookshelf, and two plush white chairs. She sits in one of them and looks out the window. I put my hands in my pockets as I watch her take in the view, wishing I could snap a picture of her right now. Messy hair, no makeup, in an oversized shirt, and she’s still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. So fucking perfect.
I turn and get our suitcases, which Ronnie brought in while we were at the rooftop event that I’m trying to not even think about. The way Sean was laughing at whatever she was saying pissed me the fuck off. Not because she was talking to another man and making him laugh (okay, that was part of the reason). Mostly, I was upset that she was giving someone else something she hadn’t given me since I found her. I know I’ve been a dick and she has no reason to joke around with me, I get it. But still, that shit hurt. Especially after she’d just told me she didn’t care, and that what we have is fake. That shitreallyhurt. Deep down, I know she cares and knows this is real, but it doesn’t make it easier to hear those words. Not after I’d been the only person who could make her feel and care. I can’t lose that. I won’t. She slaps her hands on her legs as she stands and walks over to me. My heart beats a little faster as she sways her hips and holds my gaze. Fuck, she’s hot. When she reaches me, she stops on the other side of the suitcases. Her beautiful face gives nothing away as she looks up at me. She truly has the best poker face I’ve ever seen.
“I hate it,” she whispers.
My lips pull up. “I knew you would.”
I see the confusion in her eyes, but she says nothing else as she grabs her suitcase and wheels it to the closet. I should be unpacking. Instead, I lean against one of the tall cabinets and watch as she starts unpacking, shaking her head each time she finds a different article of clothing.
“You’re a dick, you know that?” She glares up at me.
“I know.” I offer her a smile that I hope looks apologetic.
Throwing her things into the suitcase like that for someone like her, who likes her clothes neatly folded, was a dick move. She said she didn’t know what to pack, and I knew less, so I just threw in the majority of her closet. Now that I’m looking at the pile of clothes, I feel kind of bad. I take a step forward to help her. She looks up at me again — not a glare, not a smile, just a hard stare.
“Please don’t try to help,” she says. “You’ve done enough.”
Ain’t that the fucking truth. The mess I made in her suitcase is nothing in comparison to what I’ve done to her — to us. I mean, fuck, she wouldn’t even answer a simple question because she thought I’d use it to taunt her. I’ll have to make up for it somehow. After she set the shoes where she wants them, she starts pulling out the dresses and hanging them. I’m shocked that only the green one is wrinkled, considering. I’ll have to iron it for her. Or steam it. Or whatever I can do to that material to take the wrinkles out. She puts the white one on a hanger and stares at it once it’s hanging. Up top, it’s a corset. The kind women wear in the bedroom to impress their partners. I guess sewing it onto a dress and wearing it outside the house is in style now. Images of her tits in that dress flash through my mind. Sweet Jesus, who the fuck decided that was a good idea?
I clear my throat. “You should wear it tonight.”
Her eyes shoot to mine. “If I wear it tonight, I won’t have anything to wear to our fake wedding.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I mutter.
Again with the wedding bullshit. I push off the cabinet and run my fingers through my hair. For someone who acts like they don’t care about anything, she sure as hell gives a fuck about this. Maybe I should’ve made her sign a paper contract instead of a digital one. Maybe I should draft a new one that just reads: THIS IS A REAL MARRIAGE. Anything. I can’t figure out which part bothers her. I know Lyla. Sure, she signed the contract for my sake, but I don’t buy that this is what she’s upset about. If she genuinely didn’t want to, she wouldn’t have. Guilt or not. I don’t care what anyone says. Besides, she would have made thirty snarky comments about the contract itself. Is it that she wants to walk down the aisle? Fuck. Maybe she needs a ring to make it real. I hadn’t even thought of that. Lyla’s not a materialistic person, but whether she admits it or not, buried deep, deep, deep, deep, deep inside her is a hopeless romantic. She probably wants me to get down on one knee and declare my love for her. Fuck. That has to be what this is.
My palms suddenly feel sweaty. I rub them against my shorts. I actually have a ring for her — I’vehadone for her — and a proposal speech I’ve rehearsed countless times. I could propose to her tonight when we get home. But if I give her an option, she might say no. Fuck. If I get down on one knee in front of this woman and she flat-out says no to me. . .I can’t think about it. It doesn’t cease to amaze me that for my entire life, everything was a sure bet (my father’s presence notwithstanding), yet with her, I never know where I stand. That really fucks with someone like me.
“You can buy a wedding dress,” I say after a moment.
“You meanyoucan buy me a wedding dress,” she says, with a twinkle in her eyes.
I just smile. If I talk and we start bantering now, we really won’t fucking make it to this thing. She finally finishes hanging up the dresses and a few blouses that also need to be ironed. I’m really kicking myself for this right now. I fucking loathe ironing, but it’ll show her that I care, so I’m going to do it. She moves on to her underwear, grabs them all in one hand, and walks over to the drawers on her side of the closet. I expect her to fold them, but she just dumps them in there and plucks out a little white thong that has the tiniest trip of lace. My mouth is already watering. I won’t survive her. If I have to stand next to her, looking hot as fuck in that dress, knowing that she’s wearing that underneath, I might have a heart attack at my father’s estate.
“That’swhat you’re wearing under the dress?” I ask, my voice sounding hoarse in my own ears.
She meets my eyes. “It’s either that or nothing.”
Oh, fuck no. I turn around as fast as I can and walk out of the closet with a raging hard-on. We don’t have time for this right now.
CHAPTER41
LYLA
We haven’t spokena word since our interaction in the closet. It’s a strangely comfortable silence. As comfortable as pent-up sexual tension between two people who have been apart for three years can be, anyway. When I walked out of the closet wearing my dress, he looked like he wanted to punch someone. When he walked out wearing his tailored black suit, I wanted to punchhim. We stood for a full minute, checking each other out. Neither of us said a word, but when our eyes met, I knew the fire in mine matched his. Somehow, we made it downstairs without mauling each other — probably because we haven’t spoken. I think if he would have even said “push the button” to me in the elevator, I would have jumped on him.
We’ve only been in the SUV for about five minutes, and we left a huge space between us. With the amount of heated sideways glances we’ve shared, I know I’m not the only one trying not to think about fucking right here in front of Ronnie. Fuck, that might be kind of hot. I shake the thought away fast and think about what a difference one day makes.
I’m choosing not to be angry about the Fairview courthouse thing. He corrected that mistake before he even made it, so I can’t really hold it against him. I still wish he would have gone about this differently. I understand that he was upset at me, but that doesn’t really excuse his behavior. I glance over and my heart dips when I find his hooded eyes on my cleavage.
“Can you play some music, please?” I ask finally. I need to distract myself somehow.
“Of course.” Ronnie looks at me through the rearview. “What would you like to hear?”
“Honestly, I don’t care. Anything.”
“Maybe you should pick,” Lach says next to me. “She has awful taste in music.”
