Page 18 of Merlot Marriage

“Vorz.”

“Vorz.”

“Boo-re-vorz.” A brilliant smile tugs at his lips as he says it slowly, and I copy as best I can. “We’ll make an Afrikaner of you yet.”

We spend the rest of the hour-long drive with Philip attempting to describe various South African foods to me, and I have to admit, several sound delicious. We violently disagree on the correct color of cream soda, though. Cream soda should absolutely never be electric green.

He keeps me distracted and at ease until he pulls into the parking lot of a large warehouse beside the river fifteen minutes before my interview.

“Right-o, Mrs. Hot Stuff. Here we are.”

“Mrs. Hot Stuff?” I turn to him, one eyebrow raised.

He shrugs and grins, head tilted to the side. “Just trying it on for size. What do you think?”

“No.” I laugh and sink into my seat, fiddling with the ends of my fingers. The nerves Mr. Hot Stuff had been keeping at bay refill my belly as I pick at my nails. A hangnail on my right middle finger catches against my other hand, making me flinch. If I don’t take care of it now, I’m going to end up ripping it and bleeding on my white shirt.

Pulling my purse onto my lap, I scavenge through the pockets for my clippers. “‘Mrs. Hot Stuff’ sounds as if the Hot Stuff is actually you, so it’s not a compliment to me. It makes me sound like an accessory to your already established level of hotness.”

Which is not a lie, but I would never admit it.

I keep speaking, not looking at Philip while I hunt for the elusive cuticle nippers. “I’d prefer for my nickname to be based solely on my own merit, not my pretend husband’s. Besides, I already have one.”

“Technically not pretend, liefling,” he points out, using the nickname he gave me a few weeks after we met—the one I’ve never looked up the meaning of because I’m too scared of ruining our friendship to look too deeply into it.

My fingers close over the clippers, and I pull them out to snip the hangnail before it drives me bonkers. Philip is uncharacteristically quiet as I focus on my fingernails. “You okay?” I ask, not looking up.

“Yeah…” He sounds distracted, so I lift my head to see what he’s doing. “There are alotof men around here.”

I open my mouth to point out the obvious—this is a mill and a shipping yard—when it sinks in what he means. Groups of men, four and five to a pack, are moving around the parking lot and adjacent shipyard. I’ve never been catcalled by a construction crew, but it feels distinctly as though that might happen the moment I step out of the car.

As we stare at the scene, mouths agape, and I mentally berate myself for picking the tight pencil skirt and not my wide-legged trousers, another car pulls up and parks a few spots away. A short, full-figured woman steps out and scurries toward the door markedOffice. She’s wearing dark jeans and an ill-fitting polo shirt, with a chunky brown cardigan over it. I don’t miss the way she clutches her purse to her chest and barely looks around as she moves. A chorus of greetings and whistles surround her, which she only acknowledges with a backward wave and zero eye contact.

“Hmm.” Philip echoes my thoughts as the door closes behind her. He picks my left hand up from where it rests on the edge of my purse, his long fingers playing over the ring on my middle finger. The cheap one we bought from a vending machine in Vegas that I’ve kept on my middle finger since we walked out of the little chapel on the Strip. “Do you want me to walk you to the door?”

I hesitate, my independence warring with fear. I study the clock on the dashboard. Seven minutes until my interview. “I’ll be okay. I’m sure they’re all just talk. Besides, you’ll be able to see me the whole way.”

Nerves churn in my stomach as he keeps playing with my ring, twisting it on my finger. “Fine. But—” He slips the ring off and replaces it on my ring finger, an artificial wedding band that somehow calms some of my fear.

“Philip…”

“Just humor me.” When he looks up, his mischievous smile is back in place. “Please?”

I huff out a chuckle. “Fine. But only because you asked nicely.” Pulling my hand away, I click my purse closed, determination snapping into place. “Wish me luck!”

The second my hand lands on the door handle, Philip pulls me back. I’m not ready for it and fall back, catching myself againstthe center console. Instead of kissing the side of my head like he always does, his lips land on the edge of my mouth. And since I habitually air kiss whenever he does it, what should have been a perfectly normal, platonic goodbye between friends becomes Philip and I actually kissing.

On the lips.

For longer than a peck.

We separate with a choked gasp, and I immediately scramble out of the car. My lips burn with the memory, but I ignore it and pull my blazer straight before slinging my purse over my shoulder.

As I close the door, the sight of Philip frozen in place, one hand covering his mouth and eyes wide, sears itself into my mind. While he looks as if the world just moved two degrees off its axis, I feel like a buzzing in the depths of my brain has quieted. The fact that what just happened left me feeling calm and settled instead of confused is a puzzle I’ll have to sort out later.

Right now, I have an interviewer to impress.

Philip

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