The Honeymoon Trap

by Christina Hovland

  The slice of bacon she had raised to her mouth stopped just short of her lips. “I hope you do dishes, too. I don’t do dishes this early in the morning.”

  “Did you hear me?” He ran his hand over the delicious stubble on his chin. “I need a wife.”

  “And I need sleep. Oh, look.” She gestured between them with her fork. “We both have needs. Unfulfilled needs.”

  Molten gold eyes bored through her. “Tell me more about your unfulfilled needs.”

  “Sleep. Only sleep. That’s the only thing I need right now.” Her resolve cracked a bit with the way he stared.

  “Sleep?” The intensity of his expression didn’t change with the question.

  “That’s what I said, right? The only thing I need from you is a little time with my mattress.”

  Oh my God. She wanted to scoop those words up and shove them back in her mouth.

  “Your mattress,” he confirmed.

  Still with the expression not changing. The man was unnerving and ridiculous and the idea of him with her on her mattress sounded nicer than she’d ever want to admit.

  She drove an icicle stake through the thought. “Alone. Alone with my… You know what? Never mind.”

  “Bridgett isn’t available. I need you.” The little muscle in his jaw ticked. “Please.”

  “There is literally no one else you could marry?” No other “next, please”?

  Apparently, not all the bristle got washed off in the shower.

  “You are a behind-the-scenes employee at the station. A female employee, unmarried, with no plans for the next few days.”

  “How do you know I don’t have plans?” At least the man had a way with eggs. What could she say? They were fluffy and perfect.

  He gestured at her with his fork. “Do you have plans?”

  “I have to work. I’m covering for Bridgett, plus my shifts.”

  “Handled.”

  “It can’t just be handled. It’s my job.”

  “Parker’s taking care of it.”

  The persistence. Dear heavens, the persistence.

  She pressed her eyes into slits. “I would rather have a colonoscopy on national television than parade around as your wife.”

  His expression darkened. “Lucy, do you know how many stations my family owns?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Enough of them. So that if it’s true, and you’d like to have a colonoscopy on national television, I can make it happen. Your choice is simple. You’re either my wife for the next few days, or you’ll be backside up under a curtain on Good Morning America by Monday.”

  She bit into her bacon, but now it tasted like ash. “Fine,” she muttered. “Let’s get married.”

  He grinned brighter than the sun coming through the window. “It’ll be great.”

  She was positive that wasn’t true.

  Chapter Seven

  Hours later, Lucy lugged her bag through the newsroom, ready for her fake honeymoon in Twin Lakes. William had told her to wear something post-wedding appropriate, so she had tugged on a cream-colored business suit and packed a bag.

  As always, the reporters on duty stood gabbing in the corner of the room. They turned collectively to gawk at Lucy.

  Anderson let out a catcall and began a slow applause. “Congratulations on your wedding.”

  “Don’t even start.” Lucy jerked at the hem of her jacket.

  William emerged from one of the editing bays with a case of equipment. The black tuxedo he wore fit him entirely too well, amplifying his muscles and encouraging Lucy’s daydream of being a glorified bridal Barbie about to marry a real life GI Joe.

  His lazy gaze wandered over her. “You look pretty.”

  “Thanks,” she whispered, ignoring the way her cheeks heated at his comment.

  “What all did you pack?” He glanced to her oversize suitcase and humor flashed in his eyes.

  “Just what I need for a few days.”

  “Uh-huh.” He didn’t sound at all like he believed her.

  “What does that mean? Uh-huh?”

  He stacked her bags near the equipment cases. “It means, sure.”

  “You say ‘uh-huh,’ but your tone implies something else.” She smoothed the fabric of her skirt.

  “Remind me never, ever to wake you up early again.” He pinched her chin with his thumb and index finger like she was a lippy five-year-old.

  “I can’t believe I agreed to marry you,” she huffed.

  “The wedding’s barely over, and you two are already bickering like an old married couple. Need me to show you how to handle her?” Anderson asked.

  William grinned. “Nah. I got this. C’mon, Snookums.”

  “Pet names? Really?” Lucy checked her phone. “I couldn’t get ahold of Jeff to watch Mitzy.”

  “Dixie and Simon will stop in and take care of her while you’re gone. I arranged it while you were in the shower this morning.”

  “That was a little presumptuous, don’t you think, Snookums?” Lucy asked.

  “Probably, but it worked out anyway.”

  “Did anyone talk to Bridgett? She didn’t respond to my texts.” Lucy pushed her phone into her purse.

  “Stopped by the hospital on the way here. She’ll go home later today.” He reached into the pocket of his slacks and tossed Lucy a ring box. “To make it official.”

  “We don’t need to be so old-fashioned. Forget the ring. I’m a woman of the new millennium and all that.”

  He shook his head. “My wife wears a ring.”

  “Hey, McDimples. We’re not really married. You get that, right?”

  She glanced to his left hand. He already wore a gold band.

  Lucy removed the lid, revealing pear-shaped sapphires surrounding a massive diamond.

  “I can’t wear this.” She held it up. Light bounced off the diamond. “It has to be three carats.”

  “Nah, it’s a fake.” He took the box from her, removed the band from the velvet lining, and pushed the ring gently up to her knuckle. It slid right off.

  He pushed the ring gently onto her finger again. It dropped back into his hand.

  “Shucks, it doesn’t fit. I’m not your Cinderella.”

  “It has to.” He pressed it up to her knuckle and squeezed the band so the flimsy metal molded to her finger.

  “Classy. I see you spared no expense.” Sarcasm came in handy at that moment.

  His fingers trailed across her hand before he shoved the little box back into his jacket.

  Lucy followed him out the door, staring at the ring.

  In what reality did she wear a fakey-fake engagement ring to go on a honeymoon with William?

  He hoisted the bags and equipment boxes filled with cameras and various gadgets into the back of the old red truck he’d driven the first day she met him, hurrying around to the passenger side just in time to open Lucy’s door.

  His hand rested against her elbow for a moment. A flash of light caught the metal of the gold band on his left hand, taunting an impossible reality. Her blood pressure spiked, her breath turned ragged.

  The scent of him swirled in the air—spice, citrus, and the forest at dusk.

  “Relax,” he said against her ear.

  For the briefest of seconds, she thought he might nip at the soft skin of her earlobe where his lips brushed. A shiver slinked around her, over her, straight through her.

  His grin broke the spell.

  “What’s with the not shaving thing?” Lucy climbed inside.

  He glanced at the hem of her dress where it slipped up on her thigh, for about four beats too long. She cleared her throat and tilted her head to the side.

  “It’s my cover.” He closed her door.

  Cover?

  He moved his hand over the hood as he jogged around the front of the truck. Once he climbed inside, her nerves did that purring thing they were so fond of when he was around.

  “Do people recognize you a lot?” she asked.

  “Not here
in Confluence. But why take the risk?” He backed out of the parking lot. “It helps that people see what they want to see. What they expect to see. They don’t expect to see a reporter, so they don’t.”

  “Kind of like an alter ego. Except instead of spandex and a cape, you grow a beard and drive a truck?”

  He smirked, and it spread into a grin. “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “Well then, you’ll need an alter ego name. Maybe I’ll call you Willy?”

  “Not on your life.”

  “Can you at least talk with a special accent and low voice like Batman?”

  “No,” he said as they stopped at a red light.

  “C’mon William, you can’t be called ‘William’ all the time when you’re on assignment. You need something more fun. What if I just call you Bill? Or Billy or Mack or Buddy?” She quoted Sheryl Crow.

  He gripped the steering wheel and stared ahead for a moment. When he turned to her, the tenderness of his expression nearly did her in. “I’ll tell you what, Lucy. You have special permission to call me Will when we’re on assignment.”

  “Superhero Will who grows a beard and drives a truck. Sounds good to me.” She toyed with the hem of her skirt. “Tell me where we’re headed.”

  He reached over and opened the glove box, grazing her uncovered knee with the back of his hand.

  Inappropriate risqué thoughts about what harlot Barbie would like to do to G.I. Joe surged through her mind. She sucked in a hot breath as he handed her a brochure. Get a grip. This is not a real wedding night.

  “Fancy,” she drawled, flipping through the brochure. “How far is this place anyway?”

  “An hour,” he replied.

  She slid a sideways glance at him. An hour alone in a cramped space with William. She was amazingly awful at staying away from him.

  …

  Rain from the night before had drenched the abundant potholes scattered along the cracked asphalt. Focused on the road ahead, William jerked the bowtie at his neck loose.

  Bridgett had agreed they would “dress the part.” Lucy hadn’t gotten that note. He’d rather not be in a tux, either, but the way Lucy’s jaw fell open when she saw him at the station made it worth it. Chicks dug a man in a suit—he already knew that. Raise the stakes to a tuxedo and he’d hoped it might crack the armor she kept around herself.

  So far, no luck.

  “You’re quiet.” William briefly slid his gaze from the windshield to her and back to the country road leading to Twin Lakes.

  Lucy had been studying that brochure for a while now. By his estimate, she’d read it cover to cover more than a dozen times. He’d intentionally left the radio off, confident she might be feeling chatty. She wasn’t.

  “Not much to talk about, I guess.” She turned to him a little. “Maybe we should figure out our backstory. How we met. All that.”

  “Where’s the fun in a pretend backstory? I’d rather get to know the real Lucy.”

  He glanced to her again. A breeze from her open window blew strands of her hair loose from where she’d tied it up.

  His fingers itched to tuck it behind her ear.

  Hands at ten and two, bud. Hands at ten and two.

  “No. I promise, I’m not interesting.” She frowned.

  He begged to differ.

  “Not true. If there’s one thing I’ve learned as a journalist—everyone’s interesting. Everyone’s got a story to tell.” In his experience, this was the truth that kept the industry moving. Find the story. Tell the story.

  “Oh yeah? What’s your story then? The interesting parts?” She grinned his way.

  The interesting part involved a ruined reputation and a now defunct reality TV show. Both things he wasn’t going to talk about. He’d spent years doing damage control. No way was he bringing it up now.

  For a fickle industry without much of a memory, the entertainment machine had held his reputation hostage following the disaster in Florida. No matter how hard he worked, for years someone always brought up the show. Even when he’d finally moved past it, proven himself a decent reporter, the memory of that summer still haunted him.

  “I see what you did there.” He jerked his chin toward her.

  “What did I do?” She feigned innocence.

  “Answered a question with another question. Anything else you learn in journalism school?’

  She squinted his way. “Oh, tons. What did they teach you?”

  “A little of this. A little of that.” He chuckled.

  “What’s your plan when we get to the lakes?” She held up the brochure she’d studied so thoroughly.

  “Figured we’d lay out some obvious cash and then some not-so-obvious cash. I snagged a few pieces of jewelry to tuck in our suitcases when we get there, too.”

  “Hidden cameras. Lay out the bait. What else do we need to do while we’re there?” She unclipped her hair, ran a hand through it, and tucked it back up.

  “Listen, discreetly ask around, but, mostly, lay the trap and see if anyone falls into it. That leaves a lot of time for us to…talk.”

  God as his witness, before the trip was done he’d squeeze out more about her.

  The truck hit a pothole and a boom echoed through the cab of the truck. Lucy screeched. Her body went stiff. She grabbed his thigh.

  He hit the brakes and pulled to the shoulder of the road.

  Shit. He’d blown a damn tire.

  If she moved her hand up any farther, he’d blow something else, too.

  “What the hell was that?” Her hand squeezed tighter through the fabric of his slacks.

  “Pot hole. The tire blew.” He closed his eyes. She hadn’t moved her hand. She needed to move her hand.

  “Lucy?” He dropped his head against the headrest.

  “What?” Her fingers still held a death grip on his thigh.

  “Could you move…your…uh, hand?” He covered her fingers with his own to shift them closer to his knee.

  They locked gazes and the cab of the truck shrunk between them. Neither of them moved. Her lips parted. His followed suit.

  She jerked her hand off of him. “Oh my God. I’m sorry.”

  He glanced to her. She’d gone red again. His lips twitched.

  “No worries. Let’s just get this fixed.”

  “Do tow trucks even come out this far?” There wasn’t much around them except a great deal of trees, a meadow, and a speed limit sign. A few cars splashed by, but the nearest town would be an hour out.

  “I don’t need roadside assistance. I’ve got a jack and a tire iron.” He swung open his door and dug behind the seat for his tools. He may have had a privileged childhood, but his dad made sure he knew how to change a tire. One of those life skills that came in handy. Before his mother passed away, his father had actually been a decent guy. Taught him a lot of shit that came in handy, even now.

  She scooted out the passenger door and pushed it closed. “How can I help?”

  He knelt beside the tire in question and went to work. “Cheer me on?”

  She did a little jazz hands number. “Go, Will.”

  He paused at her use of the nickname. No one called him that anymore. He preferred his full name usually. Coming from Lucy, though, he didn’t mind the nickname. Hell, he even enjoyed it. He tugged off the jacket to his tuxedo to lay it across the side of the truck bed.

  “That the best you can do?” Sleeves rolled, he put pressure on a particularly tight lug nut.

  “I wasn’t exactly a cheerleader.”

  “No?” That’s the most information he’d gotten from her so far.

  “Ha. No. Go, Will is the extent of my—”

  A particularly large SUV picked that moment to pass them. A sheet of water from one of the abundant potholes drenched his back.

  He looked to Lucy. She was soaked.

  Shit. Damn.

  He was on his feet in a second. The wall of water got them both, but he had his head down by the tire. A full frontal attack hit her. Head to toe.


  He tagged his jacket to wipe at her cheeks.

  “Sonofabitch, Lucy. I’m so sorry.” The last time he tried to help clean her up—after the whole coffee debacle—he accidentally felt her up. No way was he going to make that mistake again. This time, he kept his attention to the neck up.

  She shrugged off her blazer, revealing a sleeveless blouse that exposed the creamy skin of her shoulders and arms.

  “I’ll grab your suitcase. Get you something to change into.” He reached into the bed of the truck and grabbed her bag.

  The damn thing was soaked through.

  This was not how he meant to start their trip.

  …

  Lucy was covered in flakes of mud, dried road water, and William’s tuxedo jacket when they pulled into the parking lot at Twin Lakes. Her suitcase was a mushy pile of laundry, so she had nothing else to change into.

  The Twin Lakes lodge appeared to sprout out of the side of the mountain. Nestled among pine trees and stunning blue reservoirs, primitive log cabins surrounded the out-of-place hotel. A couple of fishermen cast their lines as they stood perched along the banks of the lake. In the parking lot, a few hikers headed toward a trailhead.

  William opened her door and helped her down to the dirt parking lot. His slacks also had mud smeared on them, his shirt was wrinkled, and his hair was a mess. Rolling around in the dirt and sweating while changing a tire suited him. She’d never seen him in anything but put together. Normally he looked good, but messy suited him fine.

  He had the disheveled James Bond thing down pat. The dust of stubble on his face and the bow tie tossed over his shoulder bumped his hotness factor up a solid ten degrees. And he did not need that raise.

  Lucy handed him his jacket and smoothed her skirt. “This place is amazing.”

  He slipped on the suit coat in one smooth movement. “Mrs. Monroe?” He held his hand to her.

  “Monroe?” Her belly flipped when his fingers gripped hers.

  “We’re using Parker’s last name to check-in.”

  Lucy and Will Monroe.

  “Mrs. Monroe,” she said under her breath as they walked across the lot to the lodge entrance. “Got it.”

  “Ever done undercover reporting before?” William asked, releasing her hand.

  She shook her head.

  No. She’d always been behind the scenes in the newsroom. The handful of times she’d managed to get on-air her stories were generally straightforward. She showed up with a cameraman, a script, and her reporter armor—a smart suit with sensible pumps and perfect makeup. Her weapon of choice? A handheld microphone, which she used as a tool of intimidation by pushing it closer when someone got too aggressive or started to twist the truth.