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"Open," he commands in a husky voice.
I do, at once. I part my lips, and he slides his finger inside. I lick his digit, and his nostrils flare. And when I bite down on his fingertip, his big shoulders flex. The air between us sizzles with so much chemistry, beads of sweat pop on my upper lip. He leans forward; so do I. Closer. Closer. Oh, my god, he’s going to kiss me. His gaze slides to my mouth.
That’s when the waitress places a jug of water on the table with two glasses. "How’s everything?"
Bitch.
* * *
"What a bitch," Mira huffs up at me from the phone screen.
"Right?" I toss my head. "I wanted to claw her eyes out. She knew we were married, but that didn’t stop her from all but falling into his lap."
I’m in the ladies’ room where I managed to peel off during a lull in the emails that have been steadily pouring in all morning. I skipped lunch—not that I needed any after the massive cupcake I inhaled. Despite the interrupted breakfast, he insisted we stay until I finish my food. But the cupcake had been so rich, I pleaded off the rest of the food. He had it boxed so I could carry it back with me. I told him I didn’t want to, because if I did, I’d eat it all. He looked at me, bewildered, and said that’s what one does with food. You eat it. I stopped trying to convince him otherwise and carried the decadent treats back with me. Then, I slid it to a corner of my desk and stared at it all morning. I am not going to sneak another of the pastries. I'm not, and so far, I’ve been good.
Then, when the temptation got to be too much, I snuck off to the restroom, where I called Mira and told her the entire saga… Leaving out the details of what happened last night, that is.
"He did crumple the piece of paper with her phone number on it," she points out.
"For a minute there, I thought he wasn’t going to," I huff.
"He’s married. Of course he would," she says with complete confidence.
Not that it needs to stop him, considering our vows aren’t for real. Not that I’ve told any of my friends, or even Abby, about the fact it's an alliance of convenience—on his part, at least. Funny, how it didn't trigger suspicions. Of course, they don’t know that he made me sign a contract stating that the marriage would last for not less than a year, during which time I'm contracted to stay with him. In return, he’ll pay all of the expenses for my mother’s treatment and stay at the home for the rest of her life. Of course, my monthly allowance is a million dollars. And if I get pregnant within the year, it’s another million. With another two million deposited in my account when the child is born. And then, for each year I stay married to him, I get a million, and for each child I push out, add on another two.
My head spins with all the zeroes that means. I've stopped trying to keep track of it. Also, I refuse to check my bank account because I’m not going to touch a penny of what he’s giving me. The only money I’m going to use is that which my salary as his assistant gets me. One I insisted I draw and which I’m using to pay fifty percent of the rent on Mira’s apartment. This way, I can keep my room there and have somewhere of my own I can go to… If needed.
"Penny, you listening to me?" she asks.
"Of course I am."
"Don’t blame you if you are a little distracted. I would be, too, if I’d spent the first night of my marriage with that irresistible masculine deity."
I laugh. "Haven’t heard that one before."
"That’s because I invented it."
"You did, huh?"
"I’m having my go at writing my own smutty fanfic."
"Ooh, is it Dramione?"
"What else?" she asks with an expression that implies it couldn't it be anything else but.
"I’m so envious you found your Draco. Now, if only I could find mine."
The door opens then, and Giorgina glides in on her six-inch, spiky heels. I glance down at my wedges. Damn. Why is it that I always feel so underdressed in comparison? I cup my palm around my mouth and lower my voice, "Uh gotta go, Bellatrix Lestrange walked in."
"Wh-a-t?" Mira chokes out a laugh. "Do you mean—"
"Yes, can’t talk, bye." I hang up, slide the phone into the pocket of my trusty pink jeans—because yeah, skinny jeans may be passé, but you’ll have to tear mine from my body when I die. Also, I’d paired it with a blazer, so the effect is very much Gen-Z. I wash my hands under the tap, then dry them. When I toss the paper towel into the wastebasket, I turn to Gio. "Hey, what are you doing here?"
"Had a meeting with that prick, Rick." She caps her lipstick and drops it into her handbag, then pauses. “Prick Rick has a certain ring to it, no? Maybe I should call him Prick, instead of Rick.”
I chuckle. “Not sure he’ll like that.”
“Exactly.” Her eyes gleam.
