Page 43 of I Almost Do

I flinch back, my lip curling in disgust. Clarissa’s flinty expression cracks when she sees my reaction, and she laughs. “She’s not your type, huh?”

“Very funny. I only have one type. And I’m married to her,” I say with a scowl.

She grins at me and puts her hand on my thigh. “Well, we’ll just have to make sure everyone can see we are perfectly and incandescently happy together. Just like our wedding reception.”

That hand on my thigh is not within the parameters of our agreed-upon boundaries. At this moment, I couldn’t care less.

I pull at the knot of my bow tie, which is way too tight. "You don't have to do that. It's just good PR for people to see us happy together."

I sound like a stuffy ass. But this could easily lead to lines becoming blurred.

"Oh, I'm doing it."

I dip my head casually in agreement, as if I'm not virtually sagging in relief on the inside. But the second I pictured being able to put my hands on her at this gala, the thought of not getting to do it became unbearable.

The idea of slow dancing with her body pressed against mine is now a need. It's right up there with oxygen.

She twinkles at me. "It's not a lie, is it? We are perfectly, incandescently happy together.”

My fucking heart.

When we arrive at the gala, we walk the red carpet to the flashing lights of the paparazzi. She smiles, and I keep my arm around her waist every minute.

Inside the ballroom, lights are low, a pop artist is singing her ballads onstage, and the movers and shakers are moving and shaking.

A waiter steps near with a tray of champagne, and Clarissa shoots me a mischievous grin. "Darn. I was hoping for tequila."

I tip my head toward the bar. "Plenty over there, I'm sure. Probably some salt and lime too. You can do body shots."

I laugh at her scandalized expression.

“James." She clutches pearls she isn't wearing. "I'm not twenty-one for three months. Don't encourage me. You don't want to see what happens."

That's exactly what I'm afraid of. And exactly what I crave with everything in me.

She orders club soda and lime.

Then she works the room like she was born to it. Because she was. She may not be interested in running a corporation, but she is her father's daughter, and she has them eating out of her hand.

I see Marcus in her. It's in the way she tips her head and laughs at someone's lame joke. It's in the playful wink and the nudge with her elbow that tells the person she's speaking with "You and I, we're on the same team." It's in the way she has of making every single person she speaks with feel important and special.

"… and then I told Dad, 'Don't you dare try to give that company to me, Marcus Harcourt. I'm not mean enough to own a corporation.'" She twinkles at Franklin Barrett and his cronies as she tells the punchline, and they roar with laughter.

Franklin has to be in his late forties. He’s a well-groomed black man with a trimmed beard who has a bit of an Idris Elba look going on. He also, much to my irritation, has an obvious crush on Clarissa.

She looks up at me with a wrinkle-nosed grin, and I wrap my arm around her waist, dropping a quick kiss on her mouth. She melts into me with a little sigh.

Barrett shoots me a look—one that says he’s not sure he trusts me with my own wife. “Word is you’re plenty mean enough, Mellinger.”

He’s trying to determine whether my ruthless persona is exclusive to business. It isn’t. And Barrett can kiss my ass.

Clarissa scoffs. "My husband is an absolute teddy bear. Don't let anyone tell you any differently."

They're laughing again because everyone knows my reputation is anything but "teddy bear." Barrett gives her a skeptical look.

She pulls her phone out of her clutch and scrolls through her photos to one of me and Mr. Snuffleputz. I don't bother trying to remember his real name because every new iteration we come up with makes Clarissa laugh.

I'm lying on my back in the photo with a put-upon expression on my face. Clarissa had been missing her cat and asked for a photo of him while we were texting. He was sleeping on my chest at the time, so there it is. Photographic evidence of me allowing her cat to use me like a rug.

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