Page 46 of The Bad Boy's Fake Wife

“I do,” he says. “I mean every word. This is the book that will make you a staple author, and I can’t wait to see your success after this. And I believe that this isn’t even your peak.”

I know that. I believe it because he believes in me, and I want to be the person he’s picturing.

I pull him into a tight hug. “Thank you so much! You have no idea how much help you’ve been. If not because of you—”

“You still would’ve figured it out, Emma. You’re a brilliant writer, and you deserve all the accolades and the happy ending. All of it,” he says.

My heart is full. “You know, Agnes told me that there’s been an uptick in sales for my books. I wonder if that had anything to do with the fact that we were photographed together and Reed just happened to tell the press I’m a writer?”

“Maybe? What can I say, I’m just the writer’s husband.” He wiggles his brows suggestively, and I swat at his arm and laugh.

“Sure, if you say so,” I say, grinning. I know he had something to do with it. Maybe he encouraged a few extra people to buy my books? I have no idea what he did, but I can only hope they didn’t end up in Ralph’s collection--where books go to collect dust.

“I hope Ralph didn’t get his hands on any,” I mutter, earning a puzzled look from Jonathan.

“What?” he asks.

"Ralph and his books. I don’t want mine wasting away on his shelves."

Jonathan chuckles and pulls me into him. We sink into the couch, wrapped in each other’s warmth.

"If you want me to, I’ll confiscate them all!" he declares dramatically.

I smile, resting my head against his chest. "It’s nice to know you’ve got my back."

***

The thing I said about the sunrise being different when you’re in love? It’s true. It extends to every bit of the sunlight that comes through the window. Jonathan is still sleeping next to me, one arm wrapped protectively around my waist.

We forgot to close the window the day before, and the result is being woken up by the beautiful morning sunshine. I close my eyes and bask in it, sighing at the feeling of the light on my face and the man lying next to me. Nothing beats waking up to the love of your life.

I lean down to kiss his forehead, and he starts to stir. Jonathan slowly opens his eyes and smiles at me.

“Good morning,” he mutters in a deep, raspy voice as he turns over, fully watching me. “You look exceptionally beautiful this morning.”

I blush despite knowing my hair is probably a mess and there’s likely some drool on my face. But I like that he still likes me this way, drool and all. And he thinks I’mexceptionallybeautiful.

“Do you know you experience things differently when you’re in love?” I say randomly. “Smell, texture, and sight…it all changes. And it gets better the happier you get.”

Jonathan smiles. “I guess that does explain a lot of things. I love that theory.”

“Me too,” I say. We lie there like a couple of lovesick puppies just staring into each other’s eyes, not moving. We stay like that until finally, my stomach grumbles in protest.

My cheeks flare with heat and Jonathan laughs. “My tummy says you need to feed me.”

Jonathan nods. “I would be happy to, whatever you want.”

“Whatever?” I ask, and he nods. “Anything is fine as long as there’s coffee. And I want it in bed.”

Jonathan instantly gets up. “One princess breakfast, coming right up.” I giggle, shaking my head as he marches off with exaggerated determination, clearly enjoying his new role as my personal chef.

I laugh and fall back into bed as I watch him leave, wondering how I got this lucky. The funny thing is, if someone told teenage me that one day I’d fall in love with Jonathan, it would have made sense somehow, even if the idea would’ve also horrified me. I’ve always felt a certain level of familiarity with him that I didn’t feel with anyone else—familiarity and safety, and just overall comfort that no other man I dated before could make me feel.

He brings the breakfast of toast, eggs, and avocados to bed, with the coffee just the way I like it. He kisses me and we both settle on the bed. Eating breakfast together feels like a new experience that fills me to the brim. Even the eggs taste different, and I’m not sure I’ve ever heard of something like that happening.

“Emma.” Jonathan’s voice is soft, almost hesitant, as he sets his coffee cup down. I look up, my heart skipping a beat, waiting to hear what he has to say. “It wasn’t terribly awful waking up with you next to me in bed and making you breakfast—ow! What was that for?”

I nudge him in the side with a playful shove. “That’s for calling me ‘not terribly awful.’ I am adelightto be around, Jonathan, and if you don’t think that, then perhaps I should find someplace else to be.”

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