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* * *
He wakes at two pm, watching me before I am aware of it. I glance over, surprised to see his peaceful stare, a smile on his face. I set aside my book, standing and stepping to his side, placing a soft kiss on his check before adjusting his bed. “How you feeling, Dad? Are you in any pain?”
* * *
He shakes his head. “I’m good, Candace. Sit down. They fuss over me enough already."
* * *
I hold out a cup of water, waiting until he takes a sip before I sit.
* * *
“What are you reading?”
* * *
I hold up the book. “John Grisham.”
* * *
“I thought you would have read all of his by now.”
* * *
I grin. “I have, but I’m out of material. This one’s a loaner from Pam. I’m going to swing by the bookstore tomorrow to get a fresh stack.”
* * *
“What’s that?” He points to the magazine, still open on the table. I stand, folding over the page, and pass it to him.
* * *
He studies the pictures, glancing up at me. “This is from your trip a couple of weeks ago?”
* * *
“Yeah, when we went to California.”
* * *
I’m not sure what I expect. Admiration at the article, at Nathan’s success, at the staged photos of our happiness? My father has been less than enthusiastic at my announcement of a husband. I waited until my second visit to spring it on him, waiting until after the courthouse ceremony in case something fell through. I had gushed about Nathan, creating a picture of a faithful and loving husband. I think he’s hurt that Nathan hasn’t visited, didn’t ask him for my hand in marriage, hasn’t made any effort whatsoever at a relationship. So maybe these photos will help to support my façade and soothe his concerns.
* * *
I don’t expect the magazine to be carefully set down, a sharp pinch to his features when he turns to me. “And you’re happy, Care Bear?”
* * *
The childhood nickname causes my throat to stick, tears pricking the corners of my eyes. A sudden urge swells, one that almost causes my mouth to open, and the raw, unfiltered truth to come out. I swallow hard, smiling brightly, and instead of the clean, smooth flow of truth, dirty, filthy lies spew out.
CHAPTER 25
Nathan is gorgeous. Rich. The best I’ve ever had in bed. Other than being a supreme pain in the ass, there’s no reason why women aren’t tripping over themselves to marry the guy. He shouldn’t need a contract and financial bribe in order to get a wife.
* * *
I think through the logic as Beth takes me through deadlifts, then squats, then lunges. By the time she finishes, I’m drenched in sweat and convinced that something is amiss.
* * *
I give her a half-hearted wave goodbye and stumble to the kitchen, the cool blast of refrigerator air tempting. I resist the urge, closing the door, a Voss in hand. I straighten at the sound of footsteps. Twisting off the water bottle’s cap, I step sideways, stopping Drew on his path through the kitchen. “I’ve been thinking…”
* * *
He sighs, his steps halting, and he moves back a pace. Weeks ago, it would have offended me. Now, I’m used to the constant readjustment of distance, the wariness in his eyes, as if I’m dangerous, a threat just waiting to implode.
* * *
“Nathan wanted a wife. Why?”
* * *
“It doesn’t matter.”
* * *
Three words that raise my suspicions even higher.
* * *
“Is it a citizenship thing?” I step closer, tilting back the bottle, chugging a sip of cool water, and his eyes move briefly to my neck, then back to my face.
* * *
“No. Stop asking questions, Candy.”
* * *
“Some inheritance requirement? I read a book about that once, where the guy had to get married before he was forty. Or…” I widen my eyes. “I read once that wives don’t have to testify against their husbands. Is he planning some sort of—”
* * *
My bottle hits the floor, water splashing against my legs as he grips my shoulders, slamming the refrigerator door closed and shoving me against it, his face close to mine. I tense, my eyes darting to his furious green ones, taking a quick gasp of air before closing my mouth.
* * *
“Shut up,” he whispers, the words a growl against my skin. I realized so many things in one brief second—his hard body against my own, the unforgiving ridge of his muscles impressive and rough against my damp clothing. The peppermint flavor of his breath, hot in my ear, yet finding its way to my nose, and I inhale his scent—a blend of grass and sweat and mint that is intoxicating.
* * *
His hands, originally against my shoulders, have moved. One now cups my neck, pulling my head to one side, the other grips my ass, his large hand slipping under the loose hem of my shorts and grips my bare skin tightly against him, fitting our bodies together in one unending connection.
