His fingers flex then curl back around the steering wheel, drawing my attention to the ink across both sets of his rough knuckles.
“You’ll be expected to attend dinner with me every evening but we should also be seen together occasionally throughout the day if we’re to be believable as a couple. The rest of the time, I’ll be in and out of meetings so you’re free to do as you choose. There might be some wives’ gatherings. I suggest you attend those if you can.”
“Why is it so important you take a wife? What if you’re a shit hot banker, but you’re single? You just don’t qualify?”
He grinds his jaw. Surely that’s a question he’s asked himself too.
When he speaks, he seems to choose his words carefully. “Having a family in this business suggests you are solid, trustworthy.” He swallows slowly and it echoes inside the car. “You have something to lose.”
I nod. “That makes sense, I guess.”
His knuckles draw my gaze again.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I always expected bankers to be real clean-cut, not inked to the armpits.”
A corner of his mouth curls, making the light catch his silver stubble.
“I’m not inked to the armpits. I have one forearm and one full sleeve,” he says, matter of fact, like that didn’t send a bolt of fire unexpectedly between my legs.
I force my gaze back to the windshield, and for the rest of the journey—and wholly uncharacteristically—I can’t think of a single thing to say.
Winter Pines is basically a billionaire’s hunting cabin. Stone pillars line a dramatic entrance, massive windows draw light into the aged interior. And there’s a fountain out front that probably cost more than my college education.
Valets in pressed suits take our bags, while elegantly quaffed women in designer boots and cashmere coats drift past us.
My spine straightens automatically.
I belong here,I repeat in my head, because I feel like a fraud.
August slips an arm around my waist, making me jump half out of my skin. “Relax.”
I paste a smile to my face as we walk into the building. “If Gerard could see me now,” I mutter, “he’d choke on his beer.”
August leans into me. “Who’s Gerard?” he murmurs.
“My soon-to-be-ex-husband.”
“Right.” His arm tightens around me and his tone turns blunt. “Make that the last time you mention him.”
My breath startles, then I recall our cover. I’m awife, not a recent divorcée. And fuck, he’s paying me a lot of money to remember that.
“And you do belong here,” he says, his tongue sharp.
Shit, had I actually said those words out loud?
I scoff to cover up my embarrassment. “You’re contractually obligated to say that.”
“No,” he says, guiding me inside. “I’m not.”
My stomach does a full flip and I bow my head so no one can see the blush crawling up my collarbone.
The inside of the lodge is sparkling with glimmers of wealth. Couples are checked in at a marble desk, each pair flashing enormous diamonds and designer smiles.
The concierge beams as we step up to the desk. “Mr. and Mrs. King?”
I freeze.
August slides his hand from my waist to the upper curve of my ass which distracts me instantly.
