Page 7 of Playing Hardball
It works out for a week. She stays out of my lane, I stay out of hers. Outside, we’re the picture of a loving adoring couple. We attend our first town meeting together and some families ask us to come over for dinner.
It’s all working out until the stubborn, infuriating woman decides to flaunt the rules.
It’s early morning and when I wake up, the smell of food wafts into my nose. I follow it into the kitchen. Kim is there, cooking. I’m so confused by her action. We’ve mostly been eating takeout and ordering food these past few days. I can’t cook and I didn’t think Kim would want to either. I do nothing but stand in the doorway of the kitchen awkwardly for a minute.
“Oh, hey honey. Come on, come and have breakfast,” Kim says smiling brightly at me and gesturing at me to sit.
Honey? What is going on?
“What are you doing?” I ask. It’s too early for this shit.
“I’m cooking for my husband,” she says innocently. “If we’re going to sell this marriage thing, we have to make it believable.”
“No one is watching right now,” I say, still confused.
She shrugs.
“Practice makes perfect, now come sit.”
She walks toward me and literally drags me over to a chair. I find myself having to stifle a groan when I catch sight of the shorts she’s wearing. They’re really short and they wrap around her ass perfectly. She bends to retrieve something, making me clench and unclench my jaw. A fierce battle rages inside me. I want to slam into her from behind and make her mine. I close my eyes briefly, willing such thoughts away. By the time I open them back, Kim has placed a plate of bacon and eggs in front of me.
“Eat, I’m a really good cook,” she tells me.
I’m a little skeptical but seeing as I have no other choice, I grab the fork and dig in. I have to gulp down water after the first bite. The eggs are entirely too salty.
“Kim, when was the last time you cooked?” I ask the blonde staring at me. She looks like she’s waiting for me to comment on the food. The question causes one brown eyebrow to rise.
“I’m not sure, a long time ago? I remember I used to enjoy cooking though. So how is it?” she questions, eagerly.
“Aren’t you going to eat?” I ask, avoiding the question. I notice there’s no plate in front of her.
“I’m not really a breakfast person. Plus, I’m trying to master being a housewife,” she says.
You’re definitely mastering poisoning me.
“You still haven’t answered the question. Is the food any good? I figured my skills might be a little rusty,” she says, brown eyes blinking innocently.
I want to spare her the truth but it’s not really my style.
“Why don’t you try it for yourself,” I say.
She does, walking towards where I’m seated and taking a bite of the food. Her reaction is comical. Her eyes widen and she goes to spit it out in the garbage can. Once she’s composed herself, she takes her seat, acting like nothing happened.
“It seems my skills are more than a little rusty,” she says, a blush tinges her cheeks.
I raise an eyebrow.
“It tastes like crap,” I say bluntly and oddly enough she laughs. It’s a sweet melodious tone and I find myself wishing I could hear it all the time. Again, I force such thoughts away from my head.
“Then why are you still eating it?” she asks when I shovel another bite into my mouth.
“I hate wasting food,” I tell her and she looks impressed by that. For some reason.
“I’m sorry, Wesley,” she says.
At first, I thought it might be a good idea not to tell her my real name because I couldn’t trust her. But now, it’s really grating on my nerves that she keeps calling me that. I want to hear her call me Benton. Desire shoots through me, I want to hear her moan my name.
What the hell is wrong with me?
