Page 40 of Bottle Shock
“Hi.” His voice is smooth, as he finally releases me from his grasps.
The listing agent clears her throat delicately beside us. “Well,” she says, smiling a little too brightly, “welcome! You must be Mrs.…?”
“Ledger,” Gavin provides. “Mrs. Ledger.”
Oh. Oh my God.
Mrs. Ledger?
There are only two possible reactions to this situation: one, panic; or two, improvise.
Lucky for me, improvising is literally my only marketable skill.
“That’s me.” The words tumble out in a rush, my voice an octave higher than normal. “I’m Scottie, his wife—and his real estate agent.”
Like he’s done this before, Gavin’s arm slides around my shoulders, warm and solid, pulling me in closer.
The agent beams. “Well, that’s convenient. Feel free to take your time looking around. I’ll be here if you have any questions.”
Gavin nods his thanks and starts steering us toward the house before I can open my mouth to say anything incriminating.
Once we’re safely inside, his arm still draped around me, I hiss under my breath, “What the hell was that?”
He leans in close, his breath dusting my ear. “Just go with it.”
Oh, I’ll go with it. If he wants to play pretend, fine—I’ll play. And I’ll win.
I loop my arm around his waist and lean myhead against his shoulder, letting out an exaggerated sigh. “Isn’t it perfect, honey?” I say loudly enough for nearby couples to hear. “It’s exactly what we’ve been dreaming of.”
He stiffens almost imperceptibly, and my inner troublemaker grins.
“Oh, absolutely,hone— sweetheart, yeah,” he says, muscle ticking in his jaw.
We move through the entryway, sunlight glancing off polished hardwood and sweeping up toward vaulted ceilings. The air smells faintly of lemon cleaner. I lace my fingers through his and give his hand a playful squeeze. “Imagine Lily running through here,” I say, milking it for all it’s worth. “Maybe we could even put the Christmas tree right there.”
Gavin grunts. “Uh-huh.”
“Or maybe two trees,” I add. “You love trees, don’t you, babe?”
He clears his throat. “Sure do.”
Oh, this isfun.
I brush my thumb along the back of his hand just to watch him squirm. He’s trying to look composed, but I can see the tension building in his shoulders. For a man who always looks so unaffected, it’s kind of thrilling watching him unravel.
We pass a few other buyers, and I lean into him, whispering, “Smile, darling. People are watching.”
His mouth twitches like he’s fighting a laugh—or something else entirely. “You’re an evil woman,” he murmurs.
“You have no idea,” I whisper back, squeezing his side affectionately.
By the time we make it upstairs, I’ve ramped up my performance to Oscar-worthy levels. I stroke his arm while cooing over the built-ins. I tuck myself under his arm and call him “lovebug.” I even reach up and smooth a nonexistent wrinkle in his shirt collar while other couples glance our way, probably thinking we’re disgustingly in love.
And he’sdying.
I can tell by the way his breathing deepens, the way his voice keeps dropping an octave when he tries to speak.
We step into the primary suite, the bright sun spilling through the massive windows, the view of the lake so beautiful it doesn’t look real. I decide it’s time for my final act. My hand drifts down his chest as I rise onto my toes and whisper, “Can you imagine waking up here on a hot summer morning? Me in nothing but lingerie, sprawled across the bed, waiting for you?”
