With a heavy sigh, she said, “I’m fine.”
I was beginning to hate those words. They never truly meant she was fine.
“How was your dad today?”
A smile pulled at her face, giving a little life back to her tired eyes. “He was good. He was talking about the time he won a blue ribbon at the country fair for his grill with a built-in hamburger flipper.”
“He sounds like he was quite a character.”
“You have no idea. He was so funny. He was always out in the garage tinkering with something. There was never a dull moment.”
She adjusted on the couch, moving closer to me as she continued, “I spent hours out there with him, handing him the wrong tool and sorting screws. And every night ended with him making up bedtime stories to tell me.”
I cocked my head, inching closer myself. “He made them up?”
“Yeah, he never liked to read out loud. I’ve always kind of suspected there was some undiagnosed dyslexia, but he knew I loved stories and books, so every night he would tuck me in and tell me these elaborate made-up stories.”
“He was a good father.”
“Heisa good father,” she corrected. “What about your parents? Are they in Ohio?”
I shifted uncomfortably. I didn’t know how to talk about them without getting into everything. Yet as her thigh lightly touched mine, I found I wanted to connect with her. It wasn’t a feeling I was entirely used to.
I cleared my throat and attempted to share with her what I could. “No. They live in Paris.”
She turned fully to me, her thigh pressing fully against mine now. “Paris?”
“Yes, when I was growing up, we lived in New York City, but when my father retired, they moved back to France. I go and visit them a couple of times a year.”
“I would love to go to Paris someday. It must be so romantic. I’ve never even made it out of Ohio before.”
I didn’t like that. It filled me with the urge to take her to all my favorite places. I would love to take her to my Italian restaurant in the City. I could almost feel her in my arms at my favorite hole-in-the-wall jazz club in New Orleans, or her hand in mine as we strolled down the streets of Paris.
I had to stop myself before I got out of hand. This was not a real marriage. It could not be. She had agreed to six months, and I was not looking to marry. Yet as I looked into her eyes, I was filled with the desire to kiss her again, and not the tiny peck we had shared in my office.
She gasped, and I almost jumped out of my seat.
“This is my favorite part of the movie!”
“You almost gave me a?—”
“Shhh!”
“Did you just shush me?” I asked incredulously, but she ignored me.
She was fully facing the TV, so I couldn’t see her face, but now her body was pressed against me as well. I maneuvered my arm to the back of the couch. We sat there watching the movie. Well . . . she was watching the movie. My attention was on her. Icouldn't stop watching the way she smiled at certain points. She even mouthed the words to certain parts.
I felt every point of contact between us sear into my skin. I had not touched someone like this for longer than I cared to think about. I closed my eyes, trying to control my thoughts.
That was when I felt her head thud on my shoulder.
I looked down at her; she had fallen asleep. As the minutes ticked on, she melted into me. Her features were soft as she relaxed. This wasn’t a side of Belle I’d seen. She was usually either bright and laughing or guarded and sarcastic. I found both sides of her alluring, but this was irresistible.
Her breathing was steady as I continued to gaze at her. I tucked a small brown curl behind her ear. She deserved more than the hand life had dealt her. She deserved more than surviving in a van with a man like Tripp as her boss.
I wanted to show her the world, but that was not what we were. This was an arrangement.
My phone buzzed on the table. I ignored it as I kept my gaze pinned to this beautiful woman in my arms.
