Page 58 of Six Month Wife
Adair’s still out cold beside me, hair everywhere, mouth slightly open. Her face is relaxed in a way I don’t see often. There's no fire or sass, stillness.
It does two things at once—turns me on and messes with my head.
Because last night, I saw something in her I hadn’t expected—jealousy. I saw real emotion. When she walked in and saw me on that call with Rose, she bolted before I could tell her what it was about. In her haste, she didn't give me a chance to explain. And when I tried, she didn’t want to hear it.
She doesn’t know Rose was helpingher. Nor does she know that the whole reason I reached out to her in the first place was to help boost Citrine. And that’s not even the part that stuck with me.
What stuck is how much it mattered to her. Which, inmy fucked up head, meansImatter to her. That’s the part I can’t shake.
She groans, tossing an arm over her face. “Hey.”
“Morning,” I say, nudging a strand of hair from her cheek. “Ready for the big day?”
She groans again, burying her face in the pillow. I chuckle, but my brain’s still stuck on last night. On what it meant. On what itmightmean.
Her voice comes out muffled. “You mean brunch with your charming father, who could ruin our entire fake life over eggs Benedict? Can’t wait.”
I chuckle, settling back against the headboard. “It’ll be fine. You don’t need to impress him. He’s already got his sights locked on me.”
She peeks out from under her arm, skeptical. “So what exactly is the plan? Smile, nod, and let him dissect me like a frog?”
“Nah. Just be yourself. Maybe dial up the lovey-dovey a little.”
Her brows lift. “Why? If he already knows we rushed into this for the will, what’s the point?”
“Hesuspects. I never confirmed anything. And if we can sell it and look solid, then maybe he backs off. My main goal today is to give him what he wants and get him out of town before Anders's guy gets here Tuesday.”
There’s something ridiculously hot about the way she goes silent when she’s working something out. “So we’re in theater mode now.”
“Think of it more like we're running PR. We need to show we’ve got chemistry and that we’re on the same page.”
She sighs and rubs her eyes. “I’m gonna need a gallon of coffee and possibly a tranquilizer.”
I stretch as she gets out of bed, grabs a t-shirt off thefloor, and pulls it on without fanfare. She looks good like this, and I instantly stiffen at the sight of her body, even with the shit covering her.
“You heading next door?” she says, yawning. “I need to shower and get my game face on.” She glances back at me. “What time are we meeting him?”
That's her polite way of telling me to get the hell out. I read it loud and clear.
“One-thirty.”
She groans again, dragging her feet toward the door. “I think I can pull myself together by then.”
“Don’t forget, be yourself,” I call after her, earning a half-hearted wave as she disappears into her kitchen.
She flips me off over her shoulder without turning around. It’s practically a term of endearment by now.
Once I’m back in my condo, ten kisses and two ass squeezes later, I check the time. I don’t need as long as Adair to get ready, but I do need a minute to get my head on straight.
Because meeting my dad isn’t another brunch. It’s a goddamn obstacle course.
Leeland’s not here to size up Adair. That part’s done. I guarantee he’s already got her credit score, tax returns, and kindergarten report cards in a manila folder somewhere.
He’s here for me.
To watch how I move around her, to assess the performance, to make sure I don’t screw this up.
That’s what Leeland Matthews does. He hovers, waits, judges, and plays puppet master until someone blinks.
