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Shane pets Flower and then gives his defined jaw another swipe. “There’s a not insubstantial chance Freeman will figure it out,” he says. “Because I won’t have anyone to put on his excellent insurance, but I figure I only have to keep him fooled for a few months. If I put some time in, people will forget about the mess with Myles. Hell, if there’s any justice, he’ll lose the Burkes’ case, and people will realize I did the smart thing, walking out on him. Then I can get a job that actually challenges me, we can pretend we got divorced, and all will be right in the world.”
It’s a pompous thing to say, but my mind is stuck on two of the words he dropped. Excellent insurance.
Ear tubes. Ear tubes.
My heart is beating so loudly, I’m surprised Mrs. Longhorn doesn’t bang on the door to complain.
But Shane’s not the only one who knows how to work a conversation to his advantage. If I let him know how much his insurance interests me, I’ll be handing him an advantage. Better to hold it back for now.
“What if someone from the firm sees you out with another woman?” I almost laugh at the image of poor, sweet Mr. Freeman thinking he’s caught Shane in the act. What would he do? Invite him into his office for a brandy and a chastisement? No, I’d like to think that nice, well-mannered man would douse him with a glass of water for my benefit.
He frowns. “Well, while this is going on, we’d both have to hold off on dating.” He pauses, then adds, “Unless it’s somewhere outside of Asheville, I guess.”
“Let me guess, do you have a favorite prostitute who lives just outside of the city limits?” I ask with a snort.
His frown deepens. “I’m insulted that you think I’d have to pay for it.”
I don’t. From what I can tell, he always seems to have someone on the hook—sometimes multiple someones. Not that I care, obviously, but I don’t want people to think my fake husband is stepping out on me, so I say, “There’s zero chance I’ll have time to date someone outside of city limits. And you don’t get to step out on our hypothetical fake marriage if I don’t, so no dating for either of us.”
That particular rule won’t be a problem for me. I’ve gone on dates since my ex-husband, Rand, signed the divorce papers and the ones relinquishing his paternal rights, but none of them have gone anywhere. I haven’t wanted them to. Because I’m smart enough to recognize a pattern. To know that the same man who’s telling me that I’m lovely and smart and my ideas for Vanny are revolutionary will shift the discourse soon enough. The compliments will bleed into remarks about how I’m naïve and foolish and exhausting. How I couldn’t even manage to open a tin can if it weren’t for him. And it will happen so slowly I won’t notice until it’s too late, and I’m under his control.
Rand wasn’t the first man like that in my life, so I must keep attracting them or unintentionally seeking them out.
No thank you. Might as well quit while I’m behind.
“Sure,” Shane says carelessly. “I’ll be busy anyway.”
It’s not exactly flattering, but I’d prefer not to be flattered by him.
“How much would you pay me?”
His gaze narrows. “I was thinking we could do it by event.”
I shake my head, pursing my lips. “No can do, Romeo. If I’m not allowed to date anyone else, then I get paid by the month. A thousand bucks.” My pulse revs up. “And I want in on that sweet insurance.”
He tilts his head, more of a tell than he’d usually give, and I know I’ve surprised him. Then he swears and jumps up, my little dog clutched in his hands. I’m tempted to tell him he’s overreacting, but then I see the pee still dribbling from her.
And I can’t help it. I burst out laughing.
Chapter Seven
Shane
“It’s not funny, Ruthie,” I grind out as I put the little gremlin on the ground. The dog wags her tail as if she expects a treat for covering me in urine. “Do you know how much this suit cost?”
She rolls her eyes. “No, and you’d better not tell me. If it costs more than my rent, I’m going to get salty.” She gets up and grabs a roll of paper towels off the counter. For half a second, I wonder if she’s going to dab at my dick; for half a second, I’d like her to. Instead, she hands over the whole roll, and I begin the thankless task myself.
“You know…” she says, watching me. I’m conscious of her eyes on me while I rub the area over my dick with paper towels. It’s easily the least sexy thing a woman’s ever watched me do, but I can’t deny I have a strange awareness of Ruthie tonight. “Maybe this is a sign that you shouldn’t wear expensive suits to casual events. You should invest in some white T-shirts. Get wild and buy a pair of jeans or two.”
“I have jeans. And white T-shirts. Multiples of each.”
“I haven’t seen evidence of it for years.”
“It’s not as though we spend lots of quality time together,” I say, sighing because the paper towels haven’t done anything about the stench, and I’d rather not walk out of here looking and smelling like I went into this woman’s home and pissed myself.
“I know, thank God,” she says, but she’s grinning at me. She takes the pee-soaked towels from me and tosses them in the trash before washing her hands in the sink.
The little dog has retrieved her shitty hedgehog toy, which saved her from the shelter, and retreated into the living room. She’s gnawing on the toy half-heartedly while lying on the rug.
