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“Um, hi,” she said, without a trace of irony. If this was what their relationship would look like going forward, the view agreed with her quite well.
“Hi,” he repeated, and she heard the smile in his voice.
“How was your day?”
He laughed and it rumbled against her abdomen. “Unproductive except for the last ten minutes. You distracted me all day. Don’t disappear tomorrow morning. I’d like to wake up with you.”
The explosive countertop sex had been hot, but the simplicity, the normalcy, of his request warmed her. “It’s not my fault you’re such a heavy sleeper. Set an alarm.”
“Maybe I will.” Carefully, he separated from her and trashed the condom. He helped her to the floor and gathered up her clothes, which he handed off, then began pulling on his own clothes with casual nonchalance. “I have another favor. I swear I was going to ask first but, darlin’, you have to stop looking at me like that when I come in.”
When his muscled, inked torso disappeared behind his ruined shirt, she sighed. Those tribal tattoos symbolized Lucas to a T—untamed, unexpected and thoroughly hidden beneath the surface. One of his many layers few people were aware existed, let alone privileged enough to experience. How lucky was she?
“You looked at me first.” Of course, he always looked at her like a chocoholic with unlimited credit at the door of a sweetshop. “What’s the favor? Do I get another dress out of the deal?”
He grinned and kissed her hand. “Of course. Except this time, I intend to take it off of you afterward.”
“Or during.” She shrugged and opted to toss her irreparable blouse in the trash. Lucas might end up buying her a new wardrobe after all, by default. “You know, if it’s boring and you happen to spy a coat closet or whatever.”
His irises flared with heat and zinged her right in the abdomen. “Why, Mrs. Wheeler, that is indeed a fine offer. I will surely keep it under advisement. Come with me and let’s see about your dress.”
Mrs. Wheeler. He’d called her that before, and it was her official title, so it shouldn’t lodge in her windpipe, cutting off her air supply.
But it did. Maybe because she’d just been the recipient of a mind-blowing climax courtesy of Mr. Wheeler.
He took her hand and led her upstairs, where the couture fairies had left a garment bag hanging over her closet door. Her fake husband was a man of many, many talents, and she appreciated every last one.
“By the way,” Lucas said. “When I ran into the maid earlier, I told her we’d had a little misunderstanding about a former girlfriend, but you were noble enough to get past it. I hope that’s okay. Any excuse for why we weren’t sharing a bedroom is better than nothing, right?”
“More than okay. Perfect.” And not just the excuse. While she still basked in the afterglow of amazing sex, everything about Lucas was perfect.
The deep blue dress matched her eyes and eclipsed the red one in style and fit. Lucas leaned against the doorjamb of the bathroom, watching her dress with a crystalline focus and making complimentary noises. His attention made her feel beautiful and desired, two things she’d never expected to like.
Lucas Wheeler was a master of filling gaps, not creating them. Of giving, not taking. Ironic how she’d accused him of being selfish when trying to convince him to marry her.
As they entered the Calliope Foundation Charity Ball, a cluster of Wheelers surrounded them. Lucas’s parents, she already knew, but she met his grandparents for the first time and couldn’t help but contrast the open, smiling couple to Abuelo’s tendency to be remote.
Matthew joined them amid the hellos, and his cool smile reminded her she owed Lucas one asset of a wife. It was the very least she could do in return for his selflessness over the entire course of their acquaintance.
A room full of society folk and money and lots of opportunities to put her foot in her mouth were nearly last on her list of fun activities, right after cleaning toilets and oral surgery. But she kept her hand in Lucas’s as they worked the room; she laughed at his jokes, smiled at the men he spoke to and complimented their wives’ jewelry or dress.
There had to be more, a way to do something more tangible than tittering over lame golf stories and smiling through a fifteen-minute discourse on the Rangers’ bull pen.
“Are these clients or potential clients?” she asked Lucas after several rounds of social niceties and a very short dance with Grandfather Wheeler because she couldn’t say no when he asked so nicely.
“Mostly potential. As I’m sure you’re aware, our client list is rather sparse at the moment.”
