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"Hmm." I rub my cheek into the pillow.
"Isla, baby, you need to let go of me."
"Uh-uh." I pull him closer. Without opening my eyes, I know his face is poised over mine for I can feel his breath mingle with mine. I can smell his dark, edgy scent, feel his gaze on my features, sense the cloud of heat that spools off his body and slams into my chest, holding me captive. A moan bleeds from my lips.
"Isla, what are you doing?" He drags his nose up my jaw, and my entire body seems to detonate. I wriggle under him, squeeze my thighs together, then thrust out my chest so the tips of my breasts graze his chest. All his muscles go hard. I still haven’t opened my eyes, but I sense the tension that grips him. "Isla," his voice is hard. "You don’t want to do this."
"Don’t I?"
"You want me to fuck you when you’re drunk so you can blame it on me in the morning."
I snap open my eyes. "And what if I do? This way, we can get rid of this stupid chemistry that seems to always zing between us."
"When I fuck you, it won’t be just once, and it won’t be casual. So be very careful what you ask for."
"I—" I try to speak but the words don’t emerge from my throat. "I—"
He searches my features. "That’s what I thought. You’re not ready to face the consequences of our fucking, woman. Be content with building your little company, and the fake sense of authority that comes with it. You’re never going to be able to take off your blinkers and see the potential of what we could be together."
He pulls away, and this time, I release him. He pivots and is halfway to the door before I sit up.
My head spins, but I ignore it. "Wait, what do you mean by that? What do you mean the potential of what we could be together? I don’t understand."
He pauses, then half turns his head. "I don’t, either." Without explaining himself further, he leaves. I sink back into the bedding, my thoughts in tumult. Nothing makes sense anymore. I close my eyes, and sleep draws me under.
When I awaken in the morning, my head feels like there are many little people inside trying to drill their way out. Ouch! I manage to peel open one eyelid and spot the bottle of water and the two pills in the small dish next to it. Painkillers, thank god. I down them with the water and lay back. The next time I open my eyes, the light coming through the window is much brighter.
Ignoring my phone, which has also been placed on the nightstand next to the glass of water, I head for the door that I assume leads to the bathroom. After a hot shower and brushing my teeth with the new toothbrush I found next to the sink—courtesy of Liam again, I’m sure—I step into the same clothes I slept in and head out of the bedroom, down the corridor and toward the kitchen... Where the smells of breakfast being cooked turn my stomach.
Liam has his back to me. He’s wearing a pair of sweats, his upper body bare. His shoulder blades move in perfect synchronicity as he cooks something on the stovetop. His waist is trim, and his arse—oh, god, that arse—is tight and firm and stretches the fabric of his sweats in a manner that has my mouth watering. I must make a sound, for he turns and spots me.
"Good morning," he rumbles.
"Morning."
I shuffle toward the coffee maker, when he points to a chair and says, "Take a seat. I’ll get you coffee and something to eat."
My stomach churns. "No breakfast. Coffee is good, though."
He slides a cup of coffee toward me. Then turns back to the stove. Within seconds, two plates of food are placed on the table. One in front of each of us. I glance at the hash browns, baked beans, toast and sausages.
"I don’t eat mea—"
"These sausages aren’t meat-based. And none of that soya stuff, either. These are custom-made with fresh vegetables. I had them delivered yesterday."
"Oh." I gape, not sure what to say.
"Oh." He smirks, then slides into the chair opposite. He tucks into the food on his plate which I notice has bacon and sausages—the real thing. I sip my coffee as he eats. He points at my food with his fork. "Go on, I’ve been assured the sausages are delicious."
"You didn’t have to do that."
"What kind of a fiancé would I be if I didn’t cater to my future wife’s tastes?"
"You don’t have to say that for my benefit." I scowl up at him. "After all, this is all a pretense."
He opens his mouth, then shuts it. He raises a shoulder. "I have to keep up appearances, don’t I?"
My shoulders slump. Why did I think he was going to say something else? Of course, this is all a farce. He’s doing it to ensure if any of the tabloids spy on us, they’ll see the constructs of a fairy-tale wedding. One that took place under dubious circumstances, but a wedding, nevertheless. I cut off a piece of the veggie sausage and chew on it. The savory herbs, the tangy spices, the sweet beetroots, and the more complex taste of butternut squash cause my stomach to settle and I moan. "Oh, these are really good." I eat the veggie sausages which are well-cooked. The hash browns and toast are crunchy, just the way I like it. This time, I don’t ask him how he knew this. I know the answer.
