But I haven’t been able to get his words out of my head. He said he’d protect me, and that all I have to do is say the word. But no one has that much power.
There’s no way he can protect me from every man in New York City—he can’t be in more than one place at a time and he certainly wouldn’t want to be with me all day every day on the off chance someone might step out and hack me to bits with a machete.
Even though the words he said were not believable, thewayhe said them carried so much intent and conviction I wouldhave bet my life on them being true. And that’s a dangerous thought.
I need to protect myself, not just from men, but from a life of poverty and disadvantage. This job is a dream come true as far as earnings are concerned. I just need to hold my nerve to the end, resist those dark hazel eyes I want to drown in, get the money and run.
I owe it to Paige to give her a life that compensates for the one she left behind.
The day passes slowly. I spend most of it in the spa, faking politeness and eavesdropping on meaningless conversations, when all I really want to do is get back to August, where I feel safe and listened to, and, dare I say it, like someone who deserves to be here.
Unusually, the men don’t show for dinner, and I soon learn it’s because the meetings have been extended. I manage to eat through the flatness that descends on my stomach at the news, then retire to our suite the moment it feels acceptable to do so.
By the time I’ve washed and changed into my ‘Italians do it better’ shirt, I’m exhausted, so I slip under the sheets and fall asleep.
At some point in the night I become aware that August is in the other side of the bed, but I fall back into a slumber pretty quickly. Then a few hours later, I awaken again with a start.
Sitting up in bed this time, I look around, my eyes adjusting to the darkness. My gaze falls to the other side of the bed and it’s… empty.
Turning to the windows, there’s no light beyond the shutters, so it must be late—or very early in the morning. I check my watch on the bedside table. It’s four a.m.
The bathroom door is wide open, no lights on. August must have left. But where to? Where could he possibly need to go at four in the morning?
As I come around from sleep, my mind flits to the one explanation it always used to when I would lie at home alone, Gerard away yet again with work.
There’s another woman.
My heart plummets into the base of my stomach. That’s it. That has to be it.
August King is godliness personified. I don’t buy his ‘don’t do relationships’ bullshit.
I always suspected women must throw themselves at him and I haven’t missed the sidelong glances and the slightly less discreet cases of blatant eye fuckage from the many wives at the retreat. He is, quite simply, extremely hot. And if his threats to bend me over the bar and fuck me five ways to Sunday are rooted in truth, he has a decent sex drive.
We each made it clear this is a business transaction.
I’m his fake wife.
Fake.
Anything else would make it too complicated. Not only that but I am not a supermodel, nor an Olympic gymnast, nor an entirely bendy yoga instructor. There’s no way I’d be able to satisfy a man with that much pent up sexual energy.
I press shaking fingers to my forehead. Of course August isn’t interested in me that way—he’s just a skilful flirt who has the ability to disarm me with a well-practised line.
A small ache tightens my chest. I’m nothing but a housewife in a better woman’s clothing. Even my own husband escaped the home I made for us as often and for as long as he could. How did I not see it?
My fifties are hurtling toward me like a hijacked train and I’ve missed my chance at real love. No one gets to be swept off their feet by a wealthy, kind and insanely gorgeous man unless they have more to offer the world.
Standing here in this opulent suite, wondering why my fake husband isn’t lying in bed next to me makes me feel appropriately cheap. August didn’t choose me for this role because a part of him wanted this to be real. He chose me because I know how marriage works—supposedly. I’m here purely for show, while he goes off to pursue younger women.
The small trace of defiance I have left skitters across my skin like spider legs. While we’re here, at this retreat, I’m supposed to be hiswife. Any straying during the course of the week would be massively foolish on his part. Also, I’m not big on double standards. I half expect that if I even flirted with another man, I’d be taken to one side and given a stern talking to. It can’t be acceptable for August to get his dick satisfied by another woman. Not here.
And that’s just the black and white facts of the matter. The grey bits—the stuff filling my lungs, my heart cavity and the space between my legs—are spinning. I’m opposed to the idea of him being with another woman because… he should be the fuck with me.
Yes, yes, I know he doesn’t want to be, and he could do a thousand times better, but I don’t care.
Iwant him.
I want August King so badly I could cry with frustration.
