He thinks I’m doing this because ofthat? I’ve never even had sex with my wife, and I’d go to prison for that woman. “Haveyou?”
Ashton reels back, like the question doesn’t just disgust him, but offends him. “What the hell kind of question is that?”
“You don’t care about the reputations of the other women I’ve screwed,” I say matter-of-factly. “I find your vested interest in Winter’s well-being suspicious too. And, for the record, no. I haven’t fucked her.”
Ashton stares at me for a long time, trying to determine if I’m lying or not. Whatever he sees must be enough to convince him to trust me. “She’ll be around for other events. Just go to the one on Friday without her. Be convincing, pet some fucking puppies, kiss a kitten, and answer the questions we’ve gone ahead and approved them to ask. I’ll come and make sure everything goes smoothly.”
I mentally note that he’s only coming becausesheisn’t, but I know he won’t divulge why that is.
I stand, thoroughly pissed off. “Fine.”
“Where are you going?” he asks as I start leaving the kitchen. “We’re not done. I’ve got a new brand deal that could work in our favor.”
The last thing I give a shit about is brand deals, but I know he won’t leave me alone until I’ve heard him out. “Is it for something lame?” I ask, turning to face him.
Amusement lifts his lips. “Actually, your little obsession brought it up to her boss as a joke. She said that we could play on your current reputation by making a lighthearted jab at your expense to amuse people. But I decided it wasn’t a bad idea, so I reached out to a few companies to see if they’d be interested. I heard back from one within three hours.”
I should probably tell him not to call her that, but I don’t. I’m almost scared to ask about what deal Winter could have suggested, but I do. “What is it?”
His grin makes that wary feeling inside me grow. “Trojan condoms.”
*
When the Uberpulls up to the front entrance of Sparks Steak House in midtown Manhattan, I’m quickly reminded of the establishment’s infamous history attached to its name. Do I think Emaly’s father is going to hire four Russian assassins to gun me down the way they did Paul Castellano in 1985? Probably not. But he’s got connections in his home country that I wouldn’t be surprised if he tried using to off me the way the Gambino family did to their mob boss.
Allegedly, of course.
Emaly’s hand comes down on my arm, covered in one of my nicer suits that I usually only wear on occasion. I know if I showed up in anything less, it would instantly be picked apart by the man who may or may not try to get rid of me one way or another. Even though it’s custom-tailored to fit me, the neckline feels too tight and the tie too constricting.
“What are you thinking?” my wife asks quietly, her brows furrowing as I tug at the collar of my button-down. “You look worried.”
My eyes trail to the sidewalk through the car window. “I’m thinking that I don’t want my brains splattered on the cement like Big Paul’s were back in the eighties.”
Her hand slips away. “My father isn’t part of the mafia,” she chides, eyeing the driver, who I’m not even sure is paying attention to us. “I’d rather that rumor not be spread.”
My brows inch up. “Do you know that for sure? He’s always talking about the people he knows back in Russia. I doubt he’d tell you about them if he did have connections.”
She rolls her eyes and opens the door. “Just tip the driver and let’s go. It’s going to be easier to get on his good side if we’re not late.”
I pay the man with cash and slide out of the car after her. “We showed up ten minutes early last time we met up with him, and hestillaccused us of being late.”
She de-wrinkles her dress. I’m not used to seeing her dolled up. She usually lives in sweatpants and a stolen hoodie of mine with her hair thrown up into a bun and no makeup on. It took her almost two hours to get ready today, all to impress people who probably won’t have many nice things to say anyway.
“You look good,” I tell her, grabbing her hands as they tug on the hem of her dress that lands just above her knees. “It’s not going to get any longer by fidgeting with it.”
Her sigh is heavy as she rubs her temples. “I should have worn something else. My mother—”
“Will survive if she sees your kneecaps,” I assure her, putting my hand on the small of her back and guiding us to the entrance. “They have way more to focus on than the scandal of your dress length. I can bring up the last TMZ article that highlighted every woman I’ve been seen with over the past two years, and they won’t even remember what you’re wearing.”
She swats my chest with an easy laugh that makes me smile. “Don’t you dare!”
“Headache?” I ask suspiciously as she rubs the back of her neck and rolls it.
“Slept wrong,” she lies. “There’s a knot. I’m fine.”
“Em—”
“Not now,” she cuts me off. “I’mfine. It’s not…that. People get headaches all the time.”
