Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 74766 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 374(@200wpm)___ 299(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74766 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 374(@200wpm)___ 299(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
The guest bedroom feels foreign even though I’ve been sleeping here for weeks. Dove-gray wallpaper with hand-painted cherry blossoms, French Provincial furniture that probably belonged to Gavine’s grandmother, and windows that overlook the rose garden where I first felt his hands on me. The four-poster bed is ridiculously ornate with carved posts and ivory silk curtains that pool on the polished hardwood floor. Everything about this room whispers old money and careful preservation, like a museum display of how wealthy wives are supposed to live.
I briefly recall a shadowy figure coming in and out of my room, and how the intensity of his gaze had me stirring even with the fever making my thoughts hazy.
At one point I thought it was Death, coming to my room to fetch me, and I ended up crying helplessly as I told him, “Not yet. Not just yet please because I’m still a virgin.”
Embarrassment floods my body at the memory, which is so painfully vivid that sleep offers no escape from it. I’m wincing even with my eyes still closed, my mind working perfectly because no matter how hard I try now, I just can’t un-see or un-hear—
“How are you feeling?”
My eyes fly open.
I’m dead.
It’s Death.
No, wait, what I mean is, my husband is looking absolutely to-die-for as he stands at the foot of my bed. His tall, powerful body fills the doorway, wearing a white dress shirt with sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a couple of buttons undone to reveal the golden expanse of his chest, and his strong legs encased in dark jeans that I’m doing my very best not to look at.
Because if I let my gaze drop even an inch lower, that’s when I’m really, really doomed.
How in the world did you end up like this, Wednesday Marie Arthurs?
I just don’t know why, but there’s something about this man that has my mind going to the gutter every time I see him.
“Wednesday?”
Oh heavens, I forgot he’d asked me a question.
My gaze flies back to his face guiltily, but his expression is neither impatient nor irritated. It’s rather hard to read actually, and that has me so nervous I end up croaking out in answer, “I’m f-fine.”
“I wasn’t immediately made aware you’d been ill. I apologize for that.”
“You have nothing to apologize for,” I protest, my voice still scratchy from the fever. “And it’s my fault I fell sick anyway—”
“Why would you say that?”
Oh no, I think I just said too much. But since I’ve always had a hard time lying...
“It’s nothing,” I mumble. “What I want to make clear is how—”
“You tired yourself out with a self-designed crash course on how to be the perfect wife?”
My jaw drops. How did he—
His gaze slides to the antique writing desk by the window, and that’s when I remember all the notes I’d copiously made in the past three days...and which I forgot to hide when the fever hit.
Oh no.
My laptop sits open, still displaying the last website I’d been reading: “How to Support Your Husband’s Business Goals.” Scattered around it are legal pads covered in my careful handwriting. Notes about corporate entertaining, appropriate conversation topics for business dinners, how to dress for different types of events. I’d even printed out articles about ranch management and cattle breeding, thinking maybe if I understood his work better, I could be useful instead of just...decorative.
He studies my research for a long moment, then looks back at me with something that might be amusement. “It’s useless, by the way.”
“W-what do you mean—”
“The articles are for men who are well-off.”
“But you—”
“I’m rich as fuck.”
I choke on absolutely nothing, then notice the way his eyes gleam, and I realize he only said it to make me smile.
Oh, how perfect this man is!
If only, oh if only...
My eyes close involuntarily but they still start stinging anyway. My latest act of idiocy has me so lost in mortification that I barely notice the bed dipping under his weight. I only realize he’s perched on the side of the bed when his fingers cup my chin, and my eyes slowly open.
Oh.
His gorgeous face is still unreadable, the intensity in his gaze inexplicable. His tone, low and rough, is the only thing that yields a clue—
“Why?”
But my experience with men being a big fat zero, the clue means nothing to me at all, and I don’t understand what exactly he’s asking or why he seems so upset.
“Why do you even care about being the perfect wife” His fingers loosen as he grits the words out, and pain scorches my heart at the abrupt loss of contact. “when I told you explicitly this marriage isn’t real?”
I look at him uncertainly. “You’re mad at me for wanting to be a good wife?”
“Yes, dammit.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t deserve it!”
All I can do is stare at him. How can he not deserve a good wife?