Page 8 of The Bad Boy's Fake Wife

Emma clears her throat, and I step back so we’re not nearly touching.

“The orange juice is in the fridge,” she states coolly, as if nothing happened. I’m not even sure what just transpired, and I’m grateful she’s ignoring it.

I exhale and reach for the fridge. As our hands brush, I freeze for half a second, my breath hitching before I instinctively pull back. She does the same, her fingers twitching slightly as if she felt it, too. Sparks fly from that brief contact, and I feel my ears burning red. I should step back, crack a joke—anything to break the tension. But for half a second, I don’t move.

“Sorry,” she squeaks. “I’ll get it for you, don’t worry.”

This time, she reaches out first. She retrieves the orange juice and I grab the cup by the sink. Emma tilts the bottle toward the cup, her hands trembling slightly.

“Hey, let me help,” I offer, but she shakes her head stubbornly.

“I got this,” she murmurs. Yet, predictably, the juice misses the cup and cascades down my pants.

I watch in slow motion as the cold liquid soaks me. I grit my teeth and look up to see a horrified Emma, frozen in the middle of the kitchen as I stand drenched in orange juice.

I sigh, shaking my head. Of course this is how the night ends, with Emma testing my patience and me, yet again, unable to walk away.

Chapter 5

Emma

“Ohmygosh,Iam so, so sorry!” I mutter on repeat as I frantically search for paper towels. I’ve ruined Jonathan’s expensive pants—the kind I can’t even dream of replacing.

“Well, this is a fine way to spend the evening,” Jonathan grumbles, his hand awkwardly covering his crotch, now spotted with orange juice. He glances down at the stain, then back at me with a baffled expression.

At last, I snatch a roll of paper towels and rush over, dropping to my knees in an attempt to blot at the mess.

“What are you doing?” Jonathan barks, stepping back as I scramble after him, towel in hand.

“I’m trying to clean the stain off you, you dolt—even though, honestly, this is practically your fault!” I shout, attacking his crotch with the paper towel. Heat rushes to my cheeks as I fumble with the fabric, my fingers brushing over the stubborn wrinkle near the stain, refusing to smooth no matter how gently I try.

“How is it my fault that you lack basic motor skills? Or do you hate me so much that you ruined my clothes on purpose?” he snaps. His words twist my heart and I clear my throat, desperate to explain.

“You make my hands shake,” I confess, voice trembling. “Your confusing, hurtful words make me unsure when you’re being cruel or…something else.”

“My confusing words?” Jonathan repeats, arching an eyebrow.

I nod and let out a hoarse laugh. “Don’t act like you’re clueless. You’re mean one minute, and then you say things that send butterflies through my stomach. And I…I don’t like it.”

I try dabbing his pants again, but as my hand brushes against him, a wave of mortification crashes over me. Jonathan exhales heavily, his jaw tightening as if holding something back.

“Emma, I—” he starts.

“Save it,” I cut him off, angrily tossing the paper towel aside. “This isn’t working; the damage is done. I can’t believe I ruined your pants.”

“Emma, it’s just orange juice,” he murmurs, though his glare says otherwise.

“It’s still a stain,” I insist, staring at it. My cheeks warm as I fidget with the fabric, willing the stubborn wrinkle to smooth out, though my flustered hands don’t seem to help.

Jonathan clears his throat. “Emma, y—”

Before he can continue, Reed bursts into the kitchen. His eyes widen at the sight of us—Jonathan standing stiffly, legs awkwardly apart, while I kneel far too close to him.

My face flames as I scramble to my feet. “It’s not what it looks like! I—I just spilled juice on him!”

Reed muses, “Well, that’s one I’ve never heard before.”

Jonathan shoots a look between Reed and me, and I wish I could sink into the floor, mortified by the absurdity of it all.

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