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Gareth’s place is beautiful, but it’s cold. It’s exactly like him.
Now that I’m here, I’ll try to make it feel more like a home.
For the game. For the fake marriage. Not for any other reason.
I’m doing my time, sticking to my role, and getting my money. I willnotget attached to this life, to this man.
I won’t start to like his rough, possessive stares, or the way he casually talks about sex.
I willnotpicture his big, pierced cock. Or his muscular forearms as he pumps his hand up and down his own shaft.
I jump to my feet. “Shopping,” I say out loud like dousing myself with cold water. “Time for shopping.”
Otherwise, I’m going to fall into some seriously off-limits daydreaming, and it’s way too early in our fake relationship to go down that route.
Chapter13
Gareth
It’s been a long time since I shared my space with another person.
Since college, over ten years ago now.
Even back then, I got my own apartment as soon as it was feasible. I loved my Atlas brothers, but they were messy as hell, and I couldn’t handle it.
Now, I wake up to find half-finished glasses of water left around the apartment. Mugs of coffee with two sips perched on end tables. Dishes lying on the counter, not rinsed, not put in the dishwasher. Drawers hanging open. Cabinets with fingerprints. Keys tossed on the entry table with no attempt at organizing the chaos.
She’s Hurricane Fiona.
Throw pillows appear. Colorful blankets. Some attractive art prints on the walls. Coffee table books tastefully spread out. None of it is my style, but I told her to make the place her own.
There are perks. Like Fiona in a pair of tight yoga pants and a sports bra lounging on the couch, reading a novel. Or Fiona working out, sweat dripping down her stupidly gorgeous body. Or Fiona in an old, ratty t-shirt, too small and practically see-through, her nipples hard, her lips pouty.
Fucking hell, the girl drives me crazy.
She got clothes from every designer brand imaginable. Really made me pay for it. And yet she still somehow wears what looks like thrifted stuff designed to be as sexy as possible.
It’s hard to complain. My new fake wife has beautiful tits and a tight ass. Over the next few days, she works out obsessively, and it’s clear how she looks the way she does.
Hard work. Something we have in common.
“You don’t have to kill yourself, you know,” I say on Wednesday evening after a few days of her living here. “Sometimes it feels like you’re trying to push yourself to the limits.”
She’s sitting on the gym with her back to the wall, breathing hard after a particularly intense workout. “Exercise keeps my mind off my problems. And as you know, I have a lot of them right now.”
I shrug and walk to the treadmill. It beeps to life as I start my evening cardio. “There are better ways to distract yourself. Ones that won’t end with you getting injured.”
“If you’re about to mention sex again—”
I laugh, shaking my head. “I wasn’t, but I can see where your head’s at.”
She rolls her eyes. “Oh, sorry, this coming from the guy that keeps glancing at my chest. Yeah, I noticed.”
“You have a great tits. Am I supposed to ignore them?”
A little smile graces her lips. “You think so? I mean, I know I do, but it’s nice to hear it sometimes.”
“Look at you,” I say, head tilted. “You’re gorgeous. But you work for it.”
