Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 89519 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89519 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
I give it a beat. Two. Then turn toward her with a lazy grin. “So that went well.”
She huffs out a breath that might be a laugh or a sigh or both. “You are the most aggravating man I’ve ever met.”
“Married to me, though,” I point out.
“Stop saying that.”
“You chose me.” I remind her dramatically.
She rolls her eyes but laughs at the same time. “So annoying.”
“Want me to gloat a little more? I have a whole speech prepared about how he peaked in high school and then I peaked in Star Lake. Inside you.”
She narrows her eyes, but I catch the twitch at the corner of her mouth. She wants to giggle.
“You think this is funny?” she asks. “That poor man was heartbroken.”
My snort is loud. “Please—at any point this week that poor man could have come out to the lake and begged you to take him back. It’s not like you flew to the fucking moon,” I point out. “You were an hour away.”
She opens her mouth, probably to protest and scold me for being an asshole, but I lift a brow.
“You gonna defend him now?” I dare. “Timmy Two Weeks Ago?”
Jeez, it’s so easy to make fun of him. Am I being a dick about this? Yes.
Do I care? No.
Annabelle is my fake wife, and Tim can fuck right off. Let him find his own damn wife; this one is mine.
“No, I’m not gonna defend him. This is just a lot.”
I nod. “Yeah. For him.”
Her eyes narrow. “You’re insufferable.”
I grin. “But married.”
“Stop saying that.”
“Married,” I repeat, walking toward her with deliberate, heavy steps. “Husband. Groom. Newlywed.”
She spins around. “‘Newlywed’ implies we’re going on a honeymoon.”
Does it? “My complex has a pool on the roof.”
Annabelle arches a brow, unimpressed. “Wow. Fancy. Shall I pack a sarong?”
“You own a sarong?”
“No.”
In that case, “Pack whatever you want so I can stare at you for hours, preferably wearing nothing.”
Her mouth opens, then shuts again. “You’re so full of yourself.”
“Only because you keep feeding me reasons to be.”
She rolls her eyes and turns away, saying something under her breath that sounds like “so unbelievable,” as she fusses around her room, tidying up and moving things so the place will be clean when she returns.
I follow her to the suitcase, watching as she smooths down a stack of clothes she’s already folded twice. Her hands are busy, but her brain is spinning. I can see it.
“You okay?” I ask, quieter now.
“Of course,” she allows. “But like I said—this is a lot.”
I step closer, voice low. “If you want to stay—”
“No.” She turns, meeting my eyes. “I want to go.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes,” she says. “I just wasn’t expecting Tim to show up and try to win me back with a stupid latte.”
“I wouldn’t blame you if you were still in love with him.” I say it with a downtrodden inflection in my tone to amuse her.
Annabelle barks out a laugh. “Shut up.”
I relax, relieved to see the tension crack. The last thing I want is her aborting the mission and deciding to stay home because I have a big mouth and piss her off.
“I’m just saying . . . you two had a history. Probably swapped toothbrushes.”
She pulls a face. “That’s disgusting.”
“Agree. Which is why I’m the obvious upgrade choice.”
She side-eyes me as she continues putzing with her clothes. “You’re not jealous, are you?”
I scoff. “Of Timmy Two Lattes?”
She lifts a brow. “Yes, Timmy Two Times.”
“I guess. Maybe a little.” I’m not too shy to admit I have an insecurity when it comes to relationships, or women cheating, or knowing what a woman wants. The only thing I’ve ever been able to control is myself, so getting inside someone’s head is pointless.
So I say what I mean and mean what I say.
Always.
She tilts her head, smiling now. “Why?”
“Don’t know. The thought of you looking at some other guy—even that nerd who wears boat shoes, Tim—like you looked at me last night? When we’re not technically married?”
“You do realize we’re practically still strangers, who happen to have spent a shit ton on rings when we were drunk, right?”
I pull her in for a hug, wrapping my arms around her. “Most drunk fun I’ve had in ages.”
Chapter 21
Annabelle
If you had told me two weeks ago that I’d be standing barefoot in a glass-walled penthouse overlooking the Scottsdale skyline with my “husband,” who is currently humming off-key while unpacking his duffel—I would’ve assumed you’d either been day drinking or fallen and hit your head.
But here we are.
And the penthouse is ridiculous.
High ceilings. Floor-to-ceiling windows with automatic shades that come down at the push of a button. One of those rainfall showers the size of my kitchen back home. Concrete countertops. Shiny marble floors.
There’s a pool on the rooftop, a gym on the ground floor, and a fridge full of protein shakes and alarmingly expensive bottled water, which I can see with my eyeballs through the closed doors because they are glass.