Page 107 of The Wife Situation

I turn around and smack him. “Please. I cursed you when I stole your watch.”

A howl of laughter releases from him, and it echoes through the trees. “So fucking true.”

“Speaking of, what time is it?”

He checks his watch—the watch that started it all. “Almost seven thirty. An hour and a half until sunset.”

“And what day are we on?” I ask, curious.

“Eleven.”

I can smell the cinnamon on his breath. I lean against him, with his arm lazily wrapped around me, and glance at the low-hanging sun. Eventually, it will fall behind the mountains, and temperatures will drop. We have enough wood to last all night. The booze, as shitty as it is, will make this easier.

I try to hold back a smile and focus on the blazing fire. Some of the wood must’ve been wet because it pops and wheezes.

“What if this is a mistake?” I whisper, wishing I could predict the future.

“And what if it’s not?”

“I guess it’s the flip of a coin,” I say.

“Yep.”

If ever I needed a crystal ball, it’s now.

I’m too lost in my thoughts, trying to predict our outcome.

Marriage for three hundred sixty-five days, divorce, and a payment.

But what if, in the end, it’s not what I want?

My biggest fear is growing attached to this man, but I can’t deny how he makes me feel when we’re alone. This is the version of him I can see myself falling for. And right now, as he holds me, nothing else in the world matters but us, this moment, and this wild adventure we’re on together.

We drink like we’re running from our bubbling feelings, the ones we vehemently deny.

It’s not worth discussing until day fifteen—or at least, that’s what I tell myself.

Until then, we can continue our spiral down this path of denial, paved with silent conversations and stolen glances.

The flames have us transfixed, and we fall into silence, watching it, sipping the Fireball. At some point, it no longer has a taste, and that’s when I know I’m on the road to Truthville. After an hour, my stomach growls so loud that Easton hears it.

“Let me grab those sandwiches,” he says, patting me.

I stand, and the world shifts.

“Shit,” I say, not realizing how much I had to drink until now.

His hands are on me, gently positioning me in the chair.

I reach up and run my fingers through his hair and smile. “I’ve been wanting to do that,” I admit.

“I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere,” he says, giving me a boyish grin.

The sun is setting, quickly dipping below the mountain as the sky slowly fades into night. It’s gorgeous here, and the picture is perfectly shaded with bursts of color.

Moments later, Easton returns with bottles of water and food. He adds more wood to the fire, then I stand, allowing him to sit, and he pulls me down with him.

“You’re like my throne. All rigid,” I say, wiggling my ass against him as he hands me a sandwich.

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