Page 7 of The Bad Boy's Fake Wife

Reed’s disappointed look tells me I should apologize, but my mouth feels too heavy with regret. I’ve already botched this rare chance to be normal with Emma, and apologizing for something when I have no idea why it upset her might only worsen things.

Just then, a phone rings. Reed excuses himself to take the call, pausing just long enough to smirk. “Alright, I’ll leave you two lovebirds alone. Try not to stab each other while I’m gone.” Then, with a shake of his head, he disappears down the hall, leaving us without a buffer for our simmering animosity.

I sigh. “Emma, I didn’t mean it in a bad way—”

“No,” she interrupts. Her red hair sways as she shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter if it was genuine or not. I know what people think—that I’m a failure, that I’m stupid for still chasing my dream. I get it.”

“You don’t understand—that’s not what I meant!” I exclaim, but my words only push her farther back into her chair.

“Don’t you dare raise your voice at me!” she snaps.

I stand, frustration simmering. “I don’t know why you always assume the worst, but not everyone is against you. Emma, when you push people away like this, it makes it hard for anyone to stick around—including me.”

For a moment, I see her lips quiver. I regret my harsh words—she always manages to infuriate me, yet I can’t help but care about her. I want to tell her she’s capable of greatness, that she deserves to be who she dreams of becoming. But whether it’s my anger or her own stubborn pride, I hold back and settle into silence.

Emma methodically picks at her food, taking painfully slow bites. Unable to help myself, I smirk. “At this rate, you’ll still be eating by breakfast.”

She whips around. “Are you watching me eat? That’s downright creepy.”

I scoff, shaking my head. “Relax, Emma. I promise your dinner habits aren’t that fascinating.”

She huffs and returns to her meal. Despite our bickering, I find myself missing her retorts. Her silence feels empty. Even though I claim to despise her presence, the truth is more complicated.

“Aren’t you hungry?” I ask, trying to spark conversation again.

Her eyes remain fixed on the food as she pushes it around with her fork. “I am.”

“So you’re not sparing the steak and veggies out of some grand protest? Newsflash—the food’s already dead, so it won’t matter if you don’t eat it,” I joke. To my surprise, she chuckles.

Then her tone shifts. “Maybe my appetite is off because you’re sitting right across from me. It’s hard to enjoy a meal with someone who always manages to get under my skin.”

“Would it help if I left? Should I eat in the living room?” I retort, already annoyed.

After a pause, she pretends to ponder, then dryly states, “I don’t think that would cut it. I’d rather you leave the house entirely.”

“Should I go home then? Will that finally make you forget about me?” I ask, locking eyes with her.

Emma scrunches her face. “There isn’t a corner of this earth where you could go that would make me forget you.” The weight of her words settles between us, and for a fleeting moment, I wonder if I should feel flattered or doomed by how deeply we’re tangled in each other’s lives. “You’re imprinted in my mind, day in and day out.”

“And what exactly do you think of when you think of me?” I ask, suddenly flirting despite myself. “Do you think about me when you go to bed?”

I immediately regret it, closing my eyes to erase the tension. The room suddenly feels stifling.

But Emma leans in with a mischievous grin. “No. I think of you in the vilest ways possible. In fact, I’ve perfected at least ten different ways to make you disappear without a trace. I imagine crushing your ribs, cracking your neck so loudly the whole town hears it. Sometimes, I even think I’ve done it—but then I see you again, and remember that I only killed you in my dreams.”

Heat floods my cheeks and stomach. Somehow, her morbid fantasy is infinitely more intoxicating than any flirtation, leaving me speechless.

“You’ve been here for nearly an hour and you haven’t thrown up yet. Have you finally learned to appreciate my presence?” I blurt out, trying to dismiss the awkward tension. Emma just smiles. For a moment, I can’t tell if she’s going to snap back or let it slide. Then, to my surprise, her lips curl into a slow, knowing smile.

Then she stands and saunters over to the cabinets. “There’s wine or orange juice if you’d like. Can you be useful and grab the juice for me?”

“Where is it?” I ask as I rise. Emma is already in the kitchen rinsing cups, and she leaves them by the sink for me. Up close, I notice how her red hair has brown streaks that give her a regal air.

We stand so close that I can’t help but take in every detail, from the tilt of her mouth to the glimmer in her eyes. I’m breathing hard, my thoughts in disarray, and yet she holds my gaze without flinching.

She’s beautiful. I’ve always known it, but now, seeing her so close, I marvel at her flawless features. The light freckles on her cheeks tempt me to kiss them, one gentle peck at a time.

Then I catch myself—why am I thinking of kissing Emma?

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