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)
When I’m with Asher, that is.
“You like this one?” he asks, as I gaze at the beauty in my palm a little longer.
“I do,” I say, low and reverent. I’m so tempted to tell him I’ve checked it out before. That I’ve walked past this shop and stupidly gazed at it. Of course I have. I’m the dreamer. But what are the chances it’ll fit? Slim to nil.
“Let me see it,” he says. A demand.
I hand it over to him.
And in no time at all, he’s down on one knee.
My chest seizes up.
“Will you be my wife?”
“Yes,” I say, without thinking because I don’t need to think at all. It’s the only answer.
Remember, you’re faking this marriage.
But that voice quiets down when he slides the ring on my finger easily. A surprised breath escapes my lips. “It fits,” I whisper.
“Meant to be,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing over my skin in a way that sends a shiver up my arm. Maybe those words do too. Our eyes meet, and for a second, something shifts between us once more. For a long beat, I can’t look away. I can only feel—this new thing between us, charged and unspoken as I look at my best friend, then at the stunning ring on my finger. It’s only for show. And yet my heart is beating too fast. My skin is warming too much. The words meant to be echo. They’re so romantic, but I don’t want to get caught up in dreams of romance when really and truly, our friendship is what’s meant to be. Our friendship feels written in the stars.
But his eyes are heated, vulnerable too. Like how I feel. “Is that your proposal play?” I ask finally.
“Yes,” he replies, his voice full of certainty, then he presses a soft, tender kiss to the top of my hand.
My knees wobble.
How is that so sexy?
Why am I shivery everywhere from a kiss on my hand?
But I am—my cells are vibrating with longing. A pulse beats between my thighs. And I ache.
He rises, standing to his full height, several inches taller than I am. I look up. I swear the walls in the store feel smaller. I lean in closer, like I want to kiss him. No, it’s not like I want to. I do want to kiss him. This man made me swoon with his kisses. And for several not-so-fleeting seconds I want all the swoons again.
But we agreed to stay chaste. It’s too risky to kiss him. There are lines we shouldn’t cross again or we could lose this precious friendship.
As he pays for the ring, I shove the thoughts aside, and whisper playfully. “You didn’t have to propose, you know. I’m already your wife.”
Asher’s expression says he needs zero reminders of our status. “I wanted to propose to my wife,” he declares. There’s something outrageously pleased in his voice, and the glint in his eyes, as if he’s in on a secret only the two of us share.
And I know at last why I wanted to be alone with him. Because I like being alone with Asher. The warmth in my chest swells again, but I resist the pull to close the distance between us.
Actually, I deserve a badge for resistance. Maybe I should make one for myself for each milestone I reach during this fake real marriage.
Resisted Kiss Badge.
No Hands on Abs Award.
Didn’t Indulge in Self-Care Yet Medal.
Yet being the operative word.
Before we leave, I reach into my purse and take out something I’ve been carrying all morning, waiting for the right moment. I hand the gift to him—a black silicone ring. “And now yours,” I say.
He blinks. Several times. “You got me a ring?” He makes it sound like it’s a Ferrari.
“I did.”
“How?”
“There’s this thing called Amazon. You can order from it any time of the day.”
He drags a hand through his hair in disbelief. “The guys were saying I needed one. And you got one for me.”
It’s like no one has gotten him a gift before but that’s not true. I’ve gotten him gifts. A hot sauce set. A Lego plant when I learned he wanted to try making one, since he used to love building Lego sets as a kid. A hand-painted hockey puck with the words Puck Off on it. And our photo albums, though we share custody of those.
“I thought you’d need it for when you play. It’s better for athletes,” I explain.
“Put it on me,” he demands in a gravelly, commanding voice.
He tugs off the gold one and tucks it into his pocket then offers me his hand. I slide the black band on, wiggling it over his knuckle. And it happens again. The sparks, the shivers, and the chills erupting down my spine.
I meet his eyes. They’re glimmering with flames. I bet mine are too. I feel like I’m shimmering. I swallow roughly, then look at his big hand, adorned now with my ring. “It looks good,” I say, and I feel a little possessive, a little territorial. A little like him.