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But what he won’t do is tell me about his life, his past, his family or friends. What’s so secret that he can’t share a little bit about his childhood so I feel less a stranger?
“Fine, goodnight,” I say, climbing off the sofa and walking upstairs.
Connor never comes to bed with me.
Every night, he’ll brush his hand over my cheek or slap my bottom, telling me it’s time for bed. When I tried to tug him with me one night, he shook his head.
“Go to bed, Mia,” was all he said.
Only when I turn my light off will Connor come in. He brushes his teeth, undresses, and then slides into bed. Connor reaches for me without hesitation, and I turn over and melt into his chest.
Then he makes love to me.
But I remind myself it’snotlove. It just feels like it.
I’ve never lived with a man before—not in a relationship—so what do I know. But there was one night earlier this week, after we met with the wedding planner, that keeps playing over in my mind.
I was flicking through the private website she created for us. It feels like homework. We have to pick everything: the color scheme, the dinner set, the candles, and of course, my dress.
Connor isn’t allowed to see that section.
“Fake wedding,” he reminded me.
“I don’t care. Bad luck is bad luck. Let’s not jinx things,” I replied.
“I’m not superstitious...but yeah, okay,” he said, and I grinned. “What?” he then asked, frowning.
“So, youaresuperstitious,” I teased.
He leaned down from his standing position and put one hand on the sofa beside my head. “Not superstitious. Maybe I just want to be surprised by seeing my beautiful bride on the day.”
I bit my lip.
“Maybe I’ll wear black,” I said, taunting him.
Testing him.
“You will wear a beautiful gown and be the bride everyone expects you to be,” Connor replied and leaned closer, placing a finger under my chin. “And I’m going to remove it button by button and lick every inch of you as soon as it’s over. Fuck the reception.”
My body burst into flames, my nipples hardening against the cotton of my T-shirt.
But it was moments later, when my body had calmed down, that a sudden idea popped into my head. I leaped up and grabbed a folder from one of my boxes in the guest room.
“Where’s the fire?” Connor asked, pouring a whiskey across the room.
“Nothing...No...Nothing,” I replied, sliding lip gloss over my lips and then scribbling ideas on my notepad. I didn’t notice the big muscular man standing behind me.
“What is that?” Connor asked.
I felt a mix of embarrassment and aggravation as he invaded my privacy, so I snapped the folder shut.
“Nothing. I said it’s nothing.” I stood, walked back down the hall to the guest bedroom, and put the folder on the end of the bed near a pile of other things I still needed to sort.
When I turned to leave, Connor was leaning against the doorjamb, sipping his whiskey.
“Oh my God, have you not heard of personal space?” I said, crossing my arms.
“Not when it’s my house,” he replied, unperturbed.
