Page 35 of Wicked God
Olivia
Aheavy weight presses me into soft sheets. For a second, there’s confusion, that old panic from childhood nightmares—am I pinned? Is something wrong?—but mostly I’m just groggy and overly warm.
The clock across the room glows 6:09 a.m. The city is still, only the faintest hum of HVAC and the subtle glitter of passing headlights seeping in through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Then I feel it: the heavy, muscular one draped over my waist, the heat of a cheek pressed to my shoulder, the slow, steady cadence of another person’s breath against my bare skin. Alex. Naked, absolutely out, dead to the world, and clinging like a child to a stuffed animal.
My brain tries to catalogue the details, arrange them on a shelf. The way his eyelashes flicker—longer than they look whenhe’s awake and giving me hell. The faint bruise on his jaw (my doing, I’m fairly certain).
I want to extricate myself, but there’s something comforting about being the object of Alexander Hawthorne’s unconscious affection. I’m not sure what that says about me. Probably nothing good. I close my eyes, content to let his warmth seep into the places I didn’t realize were so cold. Maybe I’ll get up in a minute. Or ten.
I wake up an hour later to Alex propped up on his elbow, sleepy and grinning, tracing my lower back with slow, lazy circles.
“Morning, fiancée,” he says, voice raspy and soft. His lips press to my shoulder blade, then linger.
“Hi,” I reply, shifting to escape the cocoon of sheet and muscle, but he tightens his grip, locking me in place.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“Bathroom. Some of us don’t get to wake up looking like a runway model.” I try to be indignant, but yawn halfway through, undermining my case.
Alex laughs, full-bodied and unrestrained. “You always look like a dream, Olivia. Even with bedhead.”
My cheeks flush, and I roll my eyes so hard I see stars. Still, I kind of like that he says things like this, even if I’m ninety-five percent sure he’s hamming it up for effect. With a little bit of effort, I squirm out of his arms, pat the floor for my ruined underwear and the little black dress.
In the bathroom mirror, I barely recognize myself: lipstick smeared across my cheek, hair tangled, a fresh purple hickey on my collarbone. I splash cold water on my face and try to undo thedamage, but the hickey’s permanent, and so is my mortification. I yank on the crumpled dress and trudge back to the kitchen, where Alex stands fully dressed in a crisp blue suit and eating a protein bar, scrolling through his phone like a man on a mission. He looks up, sees me, and his whole face softens.
“Would you like some coffee?” He’s holding a cup of coffee made just for me, black and perfect.
“Thank you.” I take it, burning my tongue almost immediately.
His gaze travels the length of me, lingering. “Do you want me to drop you by your apartment?”
“No, I would be late for work. Could you swing by the gallery?”
“You’re going to work dressed like that?”
“Problem?” I tilt my head. My dress is wrinkled from the floor, and I probably smell like sex, but I have some spare clothes at the office. His lips twitch; he’s trying not to smile.
“Not at all. It’s a good look. With you exiting my car looking like that, we won’t need to do a whole lot more to convince anyone we’re madly in love.”
“That was the idea, wasn’t it?”
There’s a pause, the hush between sips of coffee and the mutual acknowledgement of last night’s consequences.
“We should set up the announcement soon. Paparazzi, confirmations, the full parade.” Alex leans forward, elbows on the counter. “Are you ready for that and the scrutiny that will come with it? Once we go through with this, there’s no turning back.”
“I don’t think I’ll ever be ready. But Tiffany’s happiness is worth it. And we’ll need paparazzi. Remember my friend Cassandra from the party? She has connections in the press through her event planning business. I’m sure she’d be thrilled to help orchestrate our little show.”
We go over logistics as we drive. We decide to wait a week before announcing our engagement during the Hawthornebusiness party, so we have one week for all the necessary groundwork—lunches with friends, public sightings, and a few artfully staged photo ops.
The gallery is already open when we pull up, and I feel Alexander’s eyes on me as I grab my purse.
“Olivia,” he says.
I turn to him, meeting his gaze. “Yes?”
“One more thing.” He reaches out and tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering on my cheek. “We should practice.”
