I want to ask even more personal questions than these. It’s hard to restrain myself. I grip the cup tightly so I don’t reach across the table and haul her into my lap.
“Why not? Is your husband a jealous man?” He is, very jealous.
“I…no, not really.”
“I find that hard to believe. He’d probably be crazed if he saw you here at a café, reading a”—I glance at her Kindle—”a romance book while having a conversation with a strange man, but if he’s not jealous then it doesn’t matter that I’m here.”
She looks flummoxed for a moment, a cute wrinkle appearing between her brows. “I think I’ll just read my book,” she says, picking up her reading device. “If you want to sit there, then go ahead.”
“Have you read many books by this author?” I plan to go home tonight and read them myself. Maybe I can pick up some tips. On what, I’m not sure. This is the most half-assed plan I’ve ever executed. It made perfect sense at the time. I saw her. I wanted her. I needed to make sure no one else snatched herup. Since my whole life is about spending money to acquire the things I want, that’s what I did. I studied her circumstances, sent her a proposal (money, no contact, a year’s worth of time) that she couldn’t turn down, and acquired her. But she’s not really mine.
She sets down the Kindle and gives me a hard stare. “Are you really trying to have a conversation with me?”
“Are you saying that exchanging a few words with me will land you in my bed?”
“No.” Her denial is so sure and quick, I’m stung.
She doesn’t know who you are, I tell myself. “Then it shouldn’t be a problem for us to talk, drink hot chocolate together, be friends.”
“Friends?” It’s as if that’s a foreign word to her.
“Yes, friends. Unless you’re one of those who believe men and women can’t be friends.” I could never merely be friends with Annabelle. I want her too badly—not in a friendly way but in a fierce and wild way that would see her with her clothes off, her skin flushed, her hair wild.
Her finger rubs the top of her reading device as she ponders her response. Those hands made the scones I ate. They’re capable and elegant. I want those hands on me. I want her fingers rubbing the ridges of my body, memorizing my frame. The cup threatens to crumple under my grip. I force myself to ease up.
“I don’t know if men and women can be friends. I’ve never had a male friend before.”
“Start with me.” The words pop out before I can stop them. There’s a plaintive note to them that sounds unfamiliar to me. I’m not a person who ever pleads with anyone, and yet here I am, pretending to be someone I am not, begging my wife to accept my offer of friendship. As I sit here, though, it makes sense. This is the way I can meet with her in person, every day.I can get to know her on a personal level beyond what I’ve been able to scrape together from public documents and social media accounts. I can find her weaknesses and bind her to me in a way that even a wedding ring and a contract can’t. I press forward. “We can meet here for coffee—hot chocolate,” I correct myself. “I’ll bring my own reading material, and you can bring yours. A reading club of sorts. Unless you think your husband would mind,” I add on.
“I don’t think he would.” She gives me a wry smile. “Why not? Reading in a café is hardly a romantic outing.”
“Exactly.” I lift the cup to my mouth, feeling slightly irritated that she’s so ready to cast her husband aside. I know it’s irrational to expect her to tie herself to her fake husband, but I’m torn between being upset on my behalf and excited at the same time.
I don’t know what I’ve gotten myself into. A standard courtship might have been a better idea, but that ship has sailed.
Chapter Seven
ANNABELLE
This is silly. I’m taking more time to pick out an outfit for coffee than I have spent picking one out for the luncheon I’m supposed to attend tomorrow. That should be high on my list of things to do, but instead I spent the morning making pastries to take with me to the coffee shop, which might be frowned upon.
Jeans aren't too simple for a book club. I shake my head at myself in the mirror before flipping off the bathroom light. I will not play with my hair any longer. In fact, I pull the hair tie off my wrist and pull it up into a ponytail. This isn't a date; it's friends hanging out. A date picks you up and brings you flowers.
I'm getting too into my head about it because I want this to be right. To make a friend. It has zero to do with how handsome he is. Nor how I find it oddly endearing how direct he can be.
I grab my things along with the Tupperware I have to give him. Crap, I didn't set any aside for my husband. I can make more later. I'm sure he's not dying to get more of my silly treats. The man could have pastries flown in from Paris daily if he wanted. Mine pale in comparison to those. He was probably just being nice asking for more anyway.
I slip on my coat before taking the service elevator down. The craziest thing about all of this is I have plans with this man and don’t know his name. How that slipped my mind in the moment is beyond me. I might have been hung up on the whole remark about me being gorgeous.
No one has ever said such a thing. I find I’m rather forgettable. I blend in. That's not always a bad thing. I don't want to be the center of attention; that always comes with such scrutiny. I'd made it a mission growing up to be forgettable. My older sisters are beautiful. Both could be models. Everything is about appearances to them.
I was never good enough for them or my mom. They tried to push their life agenda on me, and when I didn’t just fall in line, I was no longer welcome in their lives. I mean sure, I suppose I could have continued to try to make an effort, but I was always met with disapproval, so I stopped.
When I arrive at the coffee shop, I’m a good twenty minutes early. I’m going to appear way too eager. I could go around the block, but then I see him through the window, already inside, sitting at the same table as yesterday, two cups on the table. His eyes lock with mine, and a smile pulls at his lips when he sees me. My insides are warm. I tell myself it's because it's nice to have anyone happy to see me for once.
I pull open the door, the bell rings overhead, and he stands. Damn, he's more handsome than I remember. I was sure I'd literally built him up in my mind. That he really wasn't a foot taller than my five foot four stature or easily twice my size, probably three.
“Annabelle,” he greets me, coming toward me.
