Page 64 of Claiming Genevieve

I could see, from the moment we stepped off the jet, that he’d come home. That this placeishome for him. And I know, deep down, that having me here means something to him. For all that he agreed to the same thing I did—that this marriage is temporary and not at all real—it doesn’t feel as if he always remembers it. The way he speaks to me sometimes, the way he looks at me…I don’t know if it’s lust or something deeper, but there’s more to this for him.

But that doesn’t change anything.

When we arrive back at the estate, I feel momentarily breathless at how beautiful it is, just as beautiful in the moonlight as it was this afternoon in the full daylight. It’s like something out of a fairytale, and if things were different between Rowan and me, it would be impossibly romantic.

I bite my lip as I follow him out of the car and up the paving path to the front door. I can see why he loves this place. Itfeelslike the kind of place a person could call home, not like the cold, stark, brutal aesthetic of Chris’s penthouse. Everything about this place is warm and inviting and luscious, and I remember, as we step inside, that Rowan told me he’d never brought another woman here before.

This means something to him. It all does. And he must be terribly disappointed thatI’mthe one he’s brought here, under these circumstances.I can’t help but think that he would rather have brought arealwife home here—if he ever did. That he would rather have shared this with someone he loves, someone he was planning to build a life with, rather than a temporary bride that’s acting as a placeholder wife and a surrogate for an heir.

I swallow hard, thinking of what we’ll be doing here in a few days, if we stay that long. It will feel different here. I can’t help but think that it will, no matter how hard I try to maintain distance between us. But I have to try.

I can’t let myself cave. Not now. Not even when he looks at me as if he’s drowning, not even when he touches me and I can feel myself lighting up from the inside out, as if his touch were all the warmth and sunshine I could ever need. Not even though I know that he’s shared something with me now that he’s never shared with anyone else.

I remind myself of that when we head upstairs and pause in front of the door to the guest bedroom. I can feel the tension running through every inch of Rowan’s body, and I feel sure that I know what he’s thinking. We haven’t spent a night apart since our wedding. I remember what he said to me, on our wedding night.

I want my wife in my bed.

But he didn’t argue when I said I wanted the guest room. Maybe I’m wrong, and I’m misinterpreting the way he looks at me. Maybe the bickering, and laughter, and the teasing are all a façade, and he’s tired of me. Tired of sleeping next to a wife he can only fuck one week a month.

Or maybe he’s a better man than I want to let myself believe.

Rowan’s gaze sweeps over me, and I see that flicker of longing in his eyes again—and something else, too. Something that almost looks like regret. I feel a pang in my chest at the idea that he might be regrettingme.

“Good night,” he says finally. “Come knock on the door if you need anything.”

And then he turns, heading down the hall to the master bedroom.

—

I don’t sleep well.The bed is incredibly comfortable—soft and made up with luxurious bedding and a mountain of down pillows, but I still toss and turn, my dreams fitful and full of what happened last night. The gunshots, the brick breaking apart behind me, the run for the car—I wake up in a cold sweat, touching my neck where the scratches from the brick still sting a little, and try to go back to sleep. But it’s difficult.

I finally drag myself out of bed around eight, taking a hot shower that makes me feel a little more human, and throw on a pair of jeans and the wool sweater that I bought yesterday. I head downstairs and nearly run into Mrs. Brady at the bottom of the stairs.

“Morning,” I manage, and she smiles broadly.

“Good morning, Mrs. Gallagher.”

Thatstartles me. I don’t think anyone has actually called me that before, and I blink several times before managing to arrange my face in what I hope is a normal-looking smile. “Where’s Rowan? Do you know?”

“In the dining room, having breakfast. I’ll have someone send some in for you as well, if you just go on that way.” She gestures toward an arched doorway, and I head in the direction she pointed, soon finding a large dining room with huge windows overlooking the expansive estate beyond the manor house. Rowan is sitting at the table, scrolling through his phone between bites of food, and he looks up when I walk in.

“Morning,” he says, his voice a bit more subdued than last night. His gaze sweeps over me, carefully neutral, and I wonder at the change. “How’d you sleep?”

“Fine,” I say, though I’m sure it’s clear that it’s a lie. I saw the dark circles under my eyes this morning. “You?”

“Fine.” From the way he says it, I think he’s lying, too.

Silence falls between us for a few moments, broken only by a maid bringing in a bowl of steel-cut oats for me with small china ramekins of cream, honey, and dried fruit, as well as a plate of thick bacon and fried eggs. She sets it all down in front of me, returning a moment later with a pitcher of water, and glances at me nervously. “Tea or coffee, ma’am?” she asks, and I pause for a second, thrown off. I’ve never lived anywhere withstaffbefore, and it’s a little startling.

“Um, tea,” I request, and she nods, darting off. I look at Rowan helplessly. “This is weird.”

“It’s weird for them, too,” he says, taking a bite of sausage. “They’re used to just having me around and mostly being left to their own devices. Now I’ve brought a wife home, and they’re all trying to impress you.”

I blink. “They don’t need to.”

Rowan chuckles. “I’m sure they’ll figure that out.”

He falls silent again, and I pick up a spoon, poking at the oatmeal. “Thank you,” I say finally. “For bringing me here. I know I was upset about it, and I’m still not thrilled to be away from home—or to not have my cell phone—but I do feel safer. Really. So… thank you. And—” I hesitate, biting my lip. “I’m sorry for not telling you about the texts sooner.”

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