My stomach sinks. “What?”
“I’m sorry, but you’ll have to sleep with me.”
My grip on the box tightens.
“In my room,” he adds quickly. “For this to work, we need to share a bed.”
I stare at him.
He stares back.
And I want to take that “I do” back. If his thumb on my neck made me glow, eight hours of horizontal proximity will turn me into a supernova.
15
LIAM
Peyton blinks at me, stunned. Then she drops the box back on the tower and crosses her arms over her chest belligerently.
“Are you kidding me?” Her chin juts out, and her eyes narrow into dangerous slits. “This place is the size of a municipal airport. Why can’t I sleep in one of the seven hundred gazillion guest rooms without being within snoring distance of you?”
“I don’t snore,” I correct automatically. “And it’s not about space. It’s about optics.”
“Optics,” she repeats. “Who are we trying to impress, the toaster?”
Her foot taps against the floor. She’s got that look again, the one from the lobby: fire and defiance. I run a hand through my hair, regretting that I didn’t prep her for this part of the arrangement.
“I have a housekeeper, Mrs. Gable. She comes every day to clean.”
I scrub my jaw. I’ve been running on adrenaline and painkillers for twenty-four hours, and my endurance is running out. But seeing her like this—flushed, curls practically vibrating with indignation—wakes me up better than the double espressoI had this morning. “This is a very small town. People gossip about everything. What I eat for breakfast. What kind of toilet paper I buy. And definitely about whether my brand-new wife is sleeping in a separate bedroom.”
Peyton rolls her eyes, shifting her weight to one hip. “I’ll get up early and make the bed. I’ll strip the sheets. Problem solved. I can fluff a pillow.”
“No.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “No?”
“I can’t risk it. Mrs. Gable is thorough. She notices if a coaster is moved three inches to the left. If she finds a stray hair in the guest room, we’re done.” I lean against the wall. Gosh, the leg is killing me again. I can’t wait to lie down, even if it’s next to this walking argument.
Usually, resistance annoys me. With her, it feels dangerously like fighting might be fun.
“We need everyone to believe this is real. Especially the staff. You can’t stay in a guest room, period. One slip-up, one morning you oversleep, one time you forget to fluff the pillows, and the rumor mill starts turning. I can’t have it.”
“So I’m supposed to—what? Share a bed with a stranger?” Her voice squeaks higher. “We met yesterday!”
“What’s the issue? We shared a bed last night,” I point out. “Was that so terrible?”
Color floods her cheeks. “That was bearable only because you were unconscious the entire time.”
Not the entire time. Not when I woke up clinging to her like a drowning man to a raft. If rafts had curves and smelled of orange blossoms.
That can’t happen again. If I spoon her, I’m going to freak her out. She’s running from a controlling ex; the last thing she needs is me manhandling her in her sleep. And I could do without a daily reminder of how soft and warm my fake wife feels when herguard is down. I’ll tie myself to my side of the mattress if I have to. Build a pillow barricade. Something. But we must sell this marriage to the world and act like married people in everything except sex. That’s the deal. That’s what makes this work.
“My bed is very big,” I offer.
Peyton’s flush deepens to a shade of emergency-flare red. “You’re not helping. And you take up a lot of space.”
The reaction is captivating. The way her gaze darts away from mine, while her teeth catch her lower lip—full and pink and entirely distracting.
