Page 22 of The Bad Boy's Fake Wife

The golden sand glows under the morning sun as turquoise waves curl along the shore. Palm trees sway lazily, their leaves rustling in the breeze. The scent of salt and tropical flowers drifts in, mingling with distant laughter from the beach. For a moment, I let myself enjoy it—almost paradise, even if it isn’t Bora Bora.

As I turn away from the window, the distant clatter of keys draws my attention. I follow the sound into the bedroom, stopping mid-step when I see Emma already awake, her reading glasses slipping low on her nose as she hunches over her laptop. I pause, watching her, caught off guard by the quiet intensity in her expression. She stays hunched over her laptop, fingers flying across the keyboard, her lips pressed into a thin line as she furrows her brow. I hesitate, watching the way her brows knit together in concentration. Does she even realize I’m here? I pull on my shirt slowly, half-expecting her to acknowledge me, but she doesn’t look up until I shift my weight and the floor creaks beneath me.

“What are you working on?” I ask, peeking toward her screen.

Emma’s fingers pause over the keyboard, hesitation flickering across her face before she snaps her laptop shut and shoots me a sharp look. “My draft. I didn’t come here for fun—I have work to do. And I’m still pissed we aren’t even in Bora Bora.”

“If you want the real Bora Bora experience, we could rent a boat and make it happen,” I suggest with a shrug.

She waves me off. “Like I said, I’m here to work. And going would just be a waste of your money. At least this vacation is free, which suits our pretend marriage just fine.”

That word—pretend—lodges in my chest, stirring an unexpected pang of disappointment. I knew the deal going in, but lately, it hasn’t felt so fake. Maybe I underestimated how hard this would be.

I watch her, noting the way her nose scrunches in concentration. She’s cute when she’s focused, but I shake the thought away.

“What part are you working on now?” I ask.

She sighs, visibly irritated. “The story. The draft. The thing I need to write.”

“Yeah, but are you still on the beginning, or—?”

She glares at me. “Jonathan, I finally have enough inspiration to write, so if you’ll be a darling husband and order room service, I’d appreciate it.”

I smirk. “Look at us. Already bickering like an old married couple.”

“I would rather eat my own barf than be married to you until we’re elderly,” Emma deadpans.

That stings, but I ignore it and chuckle. “Yes, ma’am. Coffee or tea?”

“Hot cocoa.”

I place the order, and surprisingly, the food arrives fast. Emma actually pauses her work to eat, stirring her hot cocoa with a small smile. “I’m convinced this place charges double just because we think it’s Bora Bora,” she jokes, shaking her head. “Tourist tax, I suppose.”

I chuckle. “Good thing this so-called honeymoon comes with free meals.”

She rolls her eyes but takes a sip of her cocoa. “For once, something about this arrangement is working in my favor.”

The tension in her shoulders eases, and for the first time since we arrived, she doesn’t seem weighed down by frustration. She even talks about how easily the words flowed this morning, drumming her fingers on the table with excitement as she recalls the rush of inspiration. “It’s almost second nature now,” she says, beaming. “The words just came so easily. I can’t wait to show it to Agnes.”

“Who?” I frown.

“Agnes, my agent. She’s determined to make me a bestseller, but I don’t think that’s happening. Not even in my wildest dreams.”

She laughs, but I hear the self-doubt underneath it.

I meet her gaze. “Don’t say that. You don’t know what the universe has planned for you. You’re talented, Emma. You deserve recognition, and one day, you’ll get it.”

She studies me, something unreadable flickering in her eyes. “Why are you being nice to me? Does this have anything to do with the island that isn’t Bora Bora, or has my charming personality finally won you over?”

I snort. “There’s nothing charming about your personality, but it is infectious. Maybe I’m just starting to like you. Is that so hard to comprehend?”

She stares at me, lips slightly parted as if trying to decode my words. I don’t know why I said that, but I meant it.

Emma raises an eyebrow, her lips twitching. “Who are you, and what have you done with Jonathan Thompson?”

I roll my eyes as we finish breakfast in silence. Later, while Emma returns to her writing, I stare out the massive living room window at the beach below. People wade into the water, walk along the shoreline, and soak in the sun. An idea sparks.

“Let’s go swimming,” I suggest.

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