I pretend to contemplate, tapping my jaw with my finger. “True. I better take off.”
She pretends to show me the door, gesturing grandly to the exit. I make like I’m leaving, zipping up my jeans at last, but then I grab her waist and tickle her. Laughter bursts from her throat as I carry her to the bed, tossing her on it, still in her tangled dress. I pin her, my palms at her sides. “I’m staying. Admit it. You like me.”
She looks up at me, her brown eyes wide. “Why does everyone say that?”
“Say what?”
“That I like you.”
“Everyone says it?”
She nods against the mattress. “They act shocked that I do like you. All my girlfriends toss that out like it’s some big surprise. Why would I date you, sleep with you, marry you for three months, if I didn’t at least like you? If I disliked you, you can bet I wouldn’t be doing any of this.”
“Only if you liked hate-fucking me.” I grind my pelvis against her. “Do you like hate-fucking?”
“I don’t know. I suppose I could pretend I hate you, and we could see if I like it.”
“New goals,” I say, keeping it light since this is so much easier than telling her all the mad thoughts pinging around in my head. “But honestly, I don’t really want you to hate me, even for the prospect of angry sex.”
“You’re very likable.”
And see? That right there is another reminder to play it cool. I’m likable to her. I’m the fun guy. The man who won’t get attached. That’s why she said yes to playing my wife, and I need her to finish the show. We’re only in the first act of a three-act play.
I glance over at her white bureau. There’s a mirrored tray with a few charm necklaces—a Chrysler building, I think, and a Broadway sign. They’re ringed by perfume bottles. “Didn’t you write about perfume?” I ask, remembering that she had mentioned a blog at some point.
Her expression tightens, and she doesn’t meet my eyes. “I still do. From time to time.”
“What sorts of things do you say?”
She waves a hand airily. “This and that.”
She’s evasive, and that’s not like her. I arch an eyebrow as I run a hand along her hip. I should be Mr. Carefree and Casual, but I don’t want to let this topic go. “You don’t want to talk about it?”
“Let’s just say I put too much of myself in it, and I had to pull back. Make it more about the perfume and the scents.”
I run my hand down her thigh. “Was it too much of your life?”
She nods. “It was. I told stories that were too personal, that revealed too much of my heart.”
“So why do it at all?”
She sighs deeply. “I haven’t written a post in a while. I could shut it down, but I miss the camaraderie with my readers. I felt close to them, this random group of strangers who honestly weren’t strangers. I met Joy through a perfume forum back when she lived in the States, and now she’s one of my closest friends. But at the same time, I think pulling back, not writing as openly, was for the best. I feel safer.”
“Does that make you happy? Safety?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe that’s why you’re happy with me. I make you feel safe.”
She shoots me a curious look. “What do you mean?”
“You’ve drawn your lines. I don’t cross them. That makes you feel safe, and safety makes you feel happy.”
She nibbles on one corner of her lips. “It’s funny that you brought this up, because I was thinking about life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness today.”
“So American. And what did you think as you were musing on that?”
“I was remembering how my friend Veronica was going on and on about how incandescently happy she was after she banged this hot Danish boat captain in Copenhagen last year.”
I laugh. “Banging hot Danish men with British accents should totally make you ecstatic.”
“We should test this theory again. Just to be sure.” She runs a hand down my arm, and her voice turns more serious, contemplative. “You do make me feel safe. I need that. Thank you for doing that.”
A faraway look fills her eyes, and as I follow her gaze, I see her staring at the collection of bottles on her bureau. One of them is empty. My curiosity gets the better of me. “Why are you keeping that empty bottle?”
She closes her eyes and sighs, then rises, getting out of bed all rumpled and tousled. She walks to the bureau, plucks the crystal one, and takes it to the en suite bathroom. I lean near the edge of the bed so I can watch her through the open doorway. She drops it into the rubbish bin. It lands with a hard thud.
“Why did you do that?” I ask.
She stands in the doorway. “It was my wedding day perfume. I’ve needed to do that for a long time, Christian.”
A pinch of jealousy flares in me and the feeling surprises me and pisses me off. How on earth could I be jealous of her dead husband?
But the vicious truth whispers in my ear. I’m envious in some terrible way that she’s held on to him for so long.
She returns and sits next to me. “I needed to do that.”
“You didn’t have to do that for me,” I say coolly.
