Total pages in book: 154
Estimated words: 148473 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148473 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
“Yeah,” he says with a wry smile. “Soraya mentioned it’s better optics to have a plus-one. Bringing my wife to the fundraiser looks better than showing up solo. Which translates to ‘single men give off creepy vibes.’”
I crack up, pointing at him. “Your words, not mine.”
“Question for you,” he says, leaning against his vanity, watching me put on makeup. “Do I creep you out, wife?”
I turn to him, looking so ruggedly handsome in jeans and with a fine dusting of stubble. “I like that. Your stubble.”
“I look like a cowboy, right?”
“Yes, let’s put a cowboy hat on you,” I tease.
“You’d like that.”
“I would. Which translates to—you don’t creep me out at all.”
“Good.”
I go back to swiping on blush when Asher moves behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist. He brushes my hair to the side and drops a kiss on my neck.
My breath catches, and I go a little existential. “What is it about neck kisses?”
“Maybe you should do a series of mirrors with neck kisses,” he murmurs, caressing me more with those lush lips.
A tremble runs through my whole body.
I glance back at him. “Are you that greedy? You already have my pop art kiss mirrors. Now you want a series of neck kiss art.”
“When it comes to you, Maeve, you know I can never have enough,” he says, his eyes meeting mine in the reflection, intense like the night he came home and took me on the couch. That look right now—more passion than I can try to paint—makes my heart stutter.
I’m getting slightly scared of how far my emotions are running past the expiration date on our arrangement.
I focus on my makeup, but something about this moment feels so right—the two of us, getting ready, doing life together. And today, we’re stepping into one of our last official acts as fake husband and wife. That thought makes me a little sad. After I’m dressed in jeans, Converse, and a cute hoodie, we head for the door. I pause, touching his hand. “This is our last performance,” I say quietly.
His eyes soften, a bit sad. “Do you want to come up with another one?”
There’s a touch of desperation in his voice—like he’s eager to keep this going. Maybe I am too.
“I would. I can…I can come up with something. I can do anything you want,” he says.
But the truth is, we don’t have another performance lined up. No more shows to act out as husband and wife. I’ll be done with the mural in a few weeks. Everything is winding down, just like the hockey season. Just like our arrangement. Just like these “benefits” that don’t feel like only benefits anymore.
Two words tumble through my brain, over and over. Fake. Real. Real. Fake.
The lines have blurred so much I can hardly tell what I’m feeling, except a little melancholy. Whether we want another “show” or not, this is really our last scheduled performance.
We head downstairs, ready to go. Along the way, I curl my fingers into fists, so I can stretch my wrists back and forth. I swear I can feel Asher tense behind me. As I walk, I turn back to look at him. “You stretch before games. I stretch after painting,” I say.
His brow knits, but he gives a tight nod. Like he’s accepting that I’m okay. That he doesn’t need to carry this burden. At least, I hope that’s what he’s thinking. But when we reach the door, he stops. “Hold on. I forgot something.”
He lets go of my hand and trots down the hall, up the stairs, and back to the bedroom. Is he…looking something up again?
But he returns a minute later with his watch, glancing down the hall at the terrace as he snaps it on his wrist. “You like the way I look in watches,” he says by way of explanation.
“You noticed.”
“I notice everything about you.”
I’ll miss that too—the way he sees me. But I shove these wistful feelings inside as, hand in hand, we head for the park.
“Go deep!” I shout to a group of grade-schoolers who had the audacity to challenge me to a round of frisbee on Crissy Field on this beautiful Sunday afternoon.
A sixth grader named Prahna, who plays soccer, sprints across the field, arms outstretched. “I’ve got it!” she yells, reaching for the orange disc I send soaring through the air. She leaps and snatches it mid-flight.
“You’re better than a Border Collie,” I call out.
“Goals,” she responds with a grin.
We toss the frisbee back and forth a little longer before she slows down, breathless. “I’m hungry. Do they have any gluten-free sandwiches? I can’t eat wheat.”
“Dude, I don’t eat meat,” I say, smacking palms with her. “Different food options for the win.”
We head toward the sandwich boxes in recycled cardboard, joining her parents and the other kids and families. Some kids are here with their families, and some aren’t—that’s the whole point of this charity. It’s for underprivileged kids, and not all of them have parents who can always be there for them.