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The car pulls up—and I don’t reply.
Because she’s fucking right.
I do want a drink of her. A deep, long drink, and even then, I doubt I’ll be satisfied.
But there are a thousand reasons not to cross that line. Fiona’s a normal girl with normal problems—if I drag her deeper into my world, I’ll only corrupt her.
Ruin her.
She doesn’t need that.
For now, we’ll play the game, and that’ll have to be enough.
Chapter18
Fiona
Adriver from the Crowley family meets us at the airport. He’s a big guy, burly, dark hair. Never takes off his sunglasses. “Let me know if you need anything,” he says as I climb into the back seat with Gareth. “Shouldn’t be too long of a trip. Sit back and relax.” He puts up the divider as the town car pulls out.
“Seatbelt,” Gareth says. I roll my eyes at him, but buckle up. He leans over toward me a few minutes into the trip, hand on my thigh. I look at him, surprised. His lips brush against my cheek and I instinctively move to push him away, about to ask him what the hell he’s doing, but he holds me back. “We’re in character, wife,” he whispers in my ear. “Don’t assume they’re not listening. From here on out, even if we’re alone, we’re not alone.”
I take a deep breath. Right, we’re in enemy territory now.
I reach up and stroke my fingers through his thick hair. I smile at the way his gaze sharpens, unable to help the thrill that runs down my spine. I love when I make him look at me like that—like he’s not acting at all, but responding to a deep, animal need.
A need for me.
But he pulls away before we can go any further. He lapses into silence while I study him for a moment longer before looking out the window.
The flight over was easy. Gareth wasn’t in a talkative mood, which worked for me. I put on headphones, read a book, and soon enough we were landing in a little regional airport called Beverly.
We spent all last night going over the plan. Talking over everything we learned about each other. All the details about our fake Vegas wedding. Our living arrangement, the apartment that burned down, our financial arrangement. Anything a married couple might need to know. “Crowley won’t ask about whether we have a joint account or not, but the more detail we have in the back of our minds, the easier it’ll be to keep the illusion going for the next couple days,” Gareth said as we got into bed together. “We just need to get through Saturday and Sunday.”
Now, in the car out to the beach, I wonder if I can really do this.
Lie to a house full of rich, dangerous gangsters. Pretend to be married and in love with a man I barely know. A man that was my Asshole Boss barely a week ago.
I don’t exactly remember turning suicidal, but apparently, I am.
Too late to give up now.
My boss is my husband, for better or worse.
Mostly worse. But it does have perks.
Like that handsome mouth inches from mine. My fingers in his thick hair.
Small perks. Minor, insignificant perks.
Still, I have to find the good in all this.
The smalltown vibe turns beachy after ten minutes of driving. Soon, we cross over a bridge, and we’re deep into shore country—scrubby, small pines and trees, sand everywhere, windswept dunes, the works. We wind along narrow, overgrown streets, past gorgeous houses, until the driver pulls along a bendy driveway that ends with an enormous house perched on the edge of a steep bluff.
Gareth takes my hand. “Ready?” he asks.
“Ready,” I say. “It’ll be fun.” And I almost mean it.
I love the beach, and I brought a few bikinis I think Gareth’s going to lose his shit over.
