My Fake Husband by Black, L. (lightest ebook reader .TXT) 📗

the idea, by the fact that I hadn’t gotten to do so many things with her yet. And she was pulling away from me, not letting me in her life, in her thoughts, in her bed.

It was worse than if I had never had a taste of her at all. I was shaky like an addict who couldn’t get a fix. The sheer force of our attraction, the chemistry that snapped between us with the extreme pleasure that lashed through me when I came inside her sweet, hot passage was one of a kind. I needed to make her see that. But I couldn’t pressure her. It was bad enough that I’d taken advantage of her worry for me after the fire. It was worse that I wasn’t ashamed. I wanted Trixie Owens, no, Trixie Vance, back in my bed and I’d do whatever I had to. If it meant seducing her, taking her out to the Rockford Falls for a picnic like a date or making out in the back of the theater in Overton or going someplace fancy for snails and champagne, I didn’t care. My obsession with her went beyond the physical, although that need was painful. I wanted her back, on my couch, in my arms, laughing at the dinner table. All of it. If I’d lost her over going to bed together, maybe I could get her back the same way. By making her want me, without the threat of danger, just me.

I made her French toast. I folded laundry that I usually forgot. I left a note on the mirror that I’d missed her. I texted her that she was beautiful, that I was thinking of her. Nothing worked. Nothing except my continuing inability to focus on anything other than how good we had been together.

The way we’d come together, combustible, a force of nature. A galaxy exploding, she had said. It had felt that way, catastrophic, life-altering. Then she slipped away from me. A week went by, and I’d taken myself in hand every night alone in the shower, because my body couldn’t forget the way her touch had felt and wanted more. She was in my dreams, smiling slyly over her shoulder, just ahead of me, just out of my reach, confounding and seductive.

In my non-dreaming life, she spent most of her time working on the shop as repairs were done and major cleanup handled. When I repeated my offer to help her put in the flooring she’d gotten at a discount, she texted back that she had it covered. I took that to mean she’d watched a YouTube video and planned to do it alone or with Nicole and Michelle. I didn’t want to think some other guy was lending her a hand. Some guy from the home supply store that offered to come in after work and help her out, maybe take her out for a drink. She’d promised me she wouldn’t date anyone, and I knew she was loyal and far from foolish enough to accept a stranger’s help like there were no strings attached. But I still worried. It ate away at me.

She was gone all the time, often leaving before me in the morning, getting home late, showering and going to bed. Hardly saying a word to me. She didn’t act angry. She just avoided me like I was a rabid raccoon that had infested her house and maybe she was too polite to shoot me. There was something about that silly analogy I wanted to share with her, but I was afraid she wouldn’t laugh. I was afraid we’d lost that connection, the easy rapport, the joking around.

I had read too much into our night together probably. I had thought she might be starting to feel the same thing for me that I felt for her. I wanted to stay with her. I never wanted her to move out, just wanted her to move into my bedroom and never leave. I wanted our marriage to be real and lasting. I wanted to tell her that talking over supper together and those incredibly stupid TikToks she sent me during the day were the best parts of my life. That kissing her had felt like coming home. That I bought that ring for her because I was more serious than I had wanted to admit, even in the beginning. When I thought this was a crazy chance to take, a backward way to get the girl I had wanted for a long time.

I was pretty miserable. Then she texted to say she couldn’t make it to dinner at my parents’ on Thursday because she needed to finish the anti-mildew primer at the shop. So I attended the dinner, made her excuses and ate a ton of my mom’s meatloaf. I tried to avoid their questions and suggestions, but they were pretty relentless.

“Make her Mom’s sweet potato pie recipe. It’s fabulous,” Laura said.

“You think everything tastes fabulous,” Brody teased. “This baby is like a tapeworm, makes her mama eat constantly.”

“Do you know if it’s a girl?” I asked. “I wouldn’t mind having a cute little niece to spoil.”

“You’ll spoil it no matter what it is, who are you kidding?” my mom said.

“It’s way too early in the pregnancy to tell,” Laura said, “we have a gender scan in six weeks. The only way to know this soon is an amnio, and thank goodness we don’t need one of those because they usually do them if there are problems.”

“Well, then we can wait,” I said. “What names are you thinking?”

“I dunno—Trixie after my favorite sister-in-law?” Laura teased. “Please tell me you’re boning her by this time. It’s been weeks.”

“Don’t say boning at the dinner table, Laura,” our mother admonished.

“I am not boning her,” I said, my jaw set. Brody snorted.

“I never knew you not to kiss and tell,” he said.

“Stop it,” I warned. “Talk about your kid or being a cop or something.”

“Get her roses. It always worked with