Page 67 of The Contract Marriage

I want to be the man to put a smile on her face every morning. I want to be the man she thinks of with a sweet sigh and says, “I’m so glad I ran into him way back when.”

I know she doesn’t love me yet, but these quiet moments we’re building are the first step.

While she heads upstairs to grab some documents she forgot on the nightstand, Simon arrives to pick her up. Again.

How long is it going to take before he quits? Maybe I should offer to get a bodyguard so that the bastard doesn’t have to come pick her up. There are plenty of excuses: we shouldn’t inconvenience him for so long. He doesn’t live near Malibu, and the morning and evening rush-hour traffic is awful. Let the man sleep in and enjoy his evenings with some nice girl next door.

He steps inside, in a cheap but serviceable black suit. He probably has some snacks and other crap for Olivia in the car. But this morning, he’s holding a small box, beautifully gift-wrapped.

For me?

No way. He’d never give me a present…unless it’s a mail bomb.

“What’s that?” I say, slightly wary.

His challenging stare meets mine. “Olivia’s birthday present.”

The three words hit like bullets. “Birthday?”

“Don’t tell me you didn’t know,” he says, a little smirk on his face. “After all, you are her husband.” He sounds entirely too smug.

My hands clench into fists. I would love nothing more than to smash his face, except that would upset her.

“You must’ve prepared something exceptional,” Simon continues.

Shit, I didn’t even know it was her birthday. She never celebrated when we were at Stanford. “Of course I have. After all, I’ve known her since college.”

His face twists, as though he just bit into something bitter. “Ah, that’s right. You guys went to Stanford together.”

“Yep. A long history. Go waaay back.” I wave a hand, laying it on thick.

He studies my face, then suddenly snickers. “But you still didn’t know her birthday.”

Asshole. Did I overplay my hand?

“Don’t worry. I’ve got her covered this year, too. I’m sure you’re very busy, trying to occupy whatever tiny part of her life you can hold on to,” he adds.

He steps close and pats my chest, giving me a very tough look. I start to shove him back, but stop at the full, bright smile that pops up on his face.

“Hey, Olivia,” he says. “Ready?”

“Yes.” She comes down the stairs and places a quick kiss on my cheek. “See you tonight, Liam.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Olivia

Simon takes me to a new Italian restaurant that opened not too far from our office. He started the tradition of treating me to lunch for my birthday when he learned that nobody celebrated it, and I felt obligated to reciprocate, so it’s been going on for years now.

I’ve seen some signs and promos for the restaurant, but it’s my first time visiting. It’s a surprisingly delightful little place with jaunty Italian tunes, arranged from famous arias by Puccini. The air sizzles with garlic, butter and olive oil. If the food tastes as good as it smells, it’s going to be amazing.

A blonde in a pink dress checks our reservation and takes us to a cozy table by the window facing the busy street. Two laminated menus titled LUNCH wait for us.

I turn to the waiter for recommendations.

“Clam angel hair pasta for sure,” he says, all slicked-back black hair and two-day stubble. If he looked any more Italian, he’d be on the menu.

“Then let me get that. And a glass of Perrier with a slice of lemon, please.”