Page 73 of Six Month Wife
“See, this is why you don’t get it,” she says, turning to face me fully now. “You think everything’s black and white. But it’s not. There’s nuance. And pride. And relationships that aren’t as straightforward as they seem.”
“Or maybe you’re making it more complicated than it has to be,” I counter, keeping my voice calm but firm.
Her jaw tightens, and her eyes flash with irritation. “You think I don’t know my own life?”
“I think,” I say carefully. “I think you’re drowning and pretending you’re on a yacht.”
Her face hardens. “I’m not living in Lala land, Parker. And for the record, I don’t need you micromanaging my feelings right now.”
Micromanaging? The word stings more than it should. “I’m trying to help you,” I say, my voice rising slightly. “You’re the one shutting me out.”
“Maybe because you’re so damn controlling,” she fires back.
My breathing becomes erratic as I try to will myself to remain calm. “Controlling?”
“Yes!” she says, throwing her hands up. “You don’t even realize you’re doing it, but you are.”
Her words hit a nerve, and my frustration boils over. “Fine,” I say tersely, “if you want me to back off, consider it done.”
She glares at me, her lips pressed into a thin line, and we drive the rest of the way in tense silence.
By the timewe pull into the club’s entrance, the polished white building gleaming in the sunlight, my mood has soured completely. I glance at Adair as we park, and she’s busy smoothing down her dress. Her face is a mask of calm composure.
I wish I could turn it on and off as well as she does. My entire body is buzzing with negative vibes, and she's over there as cool as a cucumber.
“Ready?” I ask, my tone clipped.
“Always,” she says, her voice cool and detached. “So glad we decided to go there on the way here, when you could have left things alone until after this.”
I bite back a retort, reminding myself that we need to appear like the picture-perfect couple for this meeting. Whatever’s going on between us will have to wait.
We step out of the car and head toward the entrance, side by side but miles apart. The valet opens the door for us, and I force a smile, placing a hand on Adair’s lowerback as we walk in. She doesn’t react, but at least she doesn’t flinch away.
Paul, the estate management attorney Anders sent, is waiting for us in the lounge. I thought we were getting dinner, but it seems he wanted the more intimate and quiet lounge setting. He rises to greet us, his handshake firm and professional.
“Parker, Adair,” he says warmly. “Thank you for meeting me here. I trust the drive wasn’t too arduous?”
“Not at all,” I say, channeling every ounce of charm I can muster. “The weather’s perfect tonight.”
My fake wife, not so much.
Adair nods and offers a polite smile, but even though she's a pro at compartmentalizing her feelings, I can see the tension in her posture.
We settle into a cozy corner of the lounge, the low hum of conversation around us providing a comfortable backdrop. Paul orders a round of coffee for the table and opens his leather portfolio, glancing over his notes.
“Before we get into the specifics,” he says, “I want to say how refreshing it is to see a couple like you. Genuine connections are rare these days. I enjoyed seeing the two of you working together yesterday at the carnival.”
I almost choke on my red wine. Genuine? We argued about how I’m a micromanager and her emotional repression in the car.
Adair and I exchange a glance, and I can see the faintest flicker of amusement in her eyes.
“Thank you,” she says, her voice soft but steady.
“Now,” Paul continues, “Anders has been very impressed with your history, Parker. Your work ethic, your community involvement, it all speaks to your character.”
“Well, thanks, I guess,” I say, not sure how else to respond.
“And Adair, he’s noted your entrepreneurial spirit as well. Citrine sounds like a great business idea.”
