by Teri Wilson
If she was really being honest with herself—brutally, painfully honest—she didn’t feel like a third wheel. When Anders would meet her gaze over the top of Lolly’s little head, it took every ounce of her willpower not to join in on the affectionate display. They weren’t a family and they never would be, but in those moments, they looked like one on the outside. And on the inside, they felt like one. No matter how very hard Chloe tried to deny it.
She had no idea what that domestic scene would feel like minus Lolly, and she was afraid to find out, hence her hasty exit from the penthouse a good half hour before Anders ever came home. But right after she waved goodbye to the doorman and bent her head against the afternoon snowfall, she plowed straight into the very man she’d been trying so desperately hard to avoid. Her husband.
“Whoa.”
His voice was as deep and gravelly as ever, and the only thought running through her head as she collided face-first into his solid wall of a chest was that she needed to back away. Far, far away. Because he smelled so good, so manly, like warm cedar and pine, and his cashmere coat was so impossibly soft against her cheek that she was on the verge of purring like a kitten.
What on earth was wrong with her?
She must be in some kind of withdrawal. There’d been no physical contact between them whatsoever since the morning after they’d slept together. The last time he’d touched her had been over brunch at Bennington 8, and that generous dose of PDA had been for the benefit of her family. It had all been for show.
And whose fault is that?
Hers. Anders had done exactly as she’d asked and kept his hands to himself.
And it was driving her crazy.
“Sorry.” She jerked backward before she made a complete idiot out of herself. She needed space. Loads of space—several feet, if possible.
But it was too late, because Anders’s hands were already planted on her shoulders, steadying her, even as her legs went wobbly. She’d actually gone weak in the knees, like the world’s biggest cliché.
He let out a little laugh. “Where’s the fire?”
Everywhere. She nearly said it out loud, but stopped herself in the nick of time. The air was thick with a wintry mix of snow and frozen drizzle, and still she’d gone molten from his touch.
“Nowhere. I just...” She wiggled out of his grasp so she could form a coherent thought. “What are you doing home so early?”
His arms hung there for a second, as if they didn’t know what to do now that his hands were no longer resting on her shoulders. Then he cleared his throat and shoved his hands in his pockets. “It’s not that early.”
“Yes, it is.” She was keenly aware of what time Anders came home from work. Her self-preservation depended on it. So long as she knew when to expect him, she could put up her invisible shield, perfectly designed to keep him at arm’s length.
Chloe wasn’t good at surprises, particularly when those surprises included her charming pretend husband. Since their night together at the Bennington, it seemed like the biggest charade in her life wasn’t their marriage at all, but instead the daily pretense that everything between them was still just platonic. When she was prepared, she could put on a decent act, in the same way that hours of rehearsal and time in front of the lit makeup mirror backstage used to prepare her for a performance. Everyone at Radio City knew what time the heavy red velvet curtain rose. Showtime was calculated down to the second. If the curtain had ever gone up a minute or two early, there would have been chaos.
And now the chaos was inside her heart, beating wildly at the sight of Anders on the busy snowy sidewalk, with a cozy Burberry scarf wrapped around his neck and his hair just windblown enough to remind her what he looked like when he climbed out of bed in the morning.
She swallowed. What was he doing home so early?
“Things were slow at the office.” He was lying. Chloe had seen his calendar, and his phone chimed day in and day out with messages from his assistant, Mrs. Summers. Things were never slow at Anders’s office.
He glanced up, toward the penthouse. “I thought I’d see what you and Lolly were up to this afternoon.”
Lolly. Of course. He’d come home to spend time with his niece, which was sweet. Really, really sweet. Chloe wasn’t sure why the shrinking feeling in her chest felt so much like disappointment.
“Lolly isn’t here. She’s still at the studio. Allegra let her stay for tap class and beginning ballet because she wasn’t ready to go home after our recital rehearsal.” The little girl was becoming more besotted by the day. It made Chloe even more determined to not only save the dance school, but help make it thrive again. “I think you might have a future dancer on your hands.”
“Just like you.” Something in his gaze softened, and it made the breath hitch in Chloe’s throat. “That wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.”
Their eyes locked, and for a dizzying second, everything around them faded away. The city streets, always humming with the blur of taxis and siren wails, faded into the background, until all she could see was the unexpected softness in his gaze and all she could hear was her pulse roaring like a wildfire in her ears.
Her family still didn’t know she’d been fired. Only Anders knew the truth, and here he was, telling her he’d be happy if Lolly grew up to be just like her.
She shook her head. “I’m not a dancer anymore. Remember?”
“You’ll always be a dancer,” he said simply, and with enough conviction that she almost believed it.
She took a deep breath. “I should go. I need to get back to the studio.”
“Isn’t the nanny with Lolly? She can bring her home.”
The nanny. Right. He still didn’t know.
“I gave the nanny a week off. I hope it’s okay. I just figured since it was Christmas she might want to spend some time with her own family, and I’m here now.” It’s only temporary, remember? As if she could forget. “But don’t worry—she’ll be back the day after Christmas.”
He nodded as a cold understanding passed through his gaze. He’d need the nanny again once the expiration date on their makeshift family had passed. “I see. And of course it’s okay.”
“I should go.” She couldn’t keep standing there chatting about the nanny and Lolly’s schedule, as if they were a real couple. A real family. “I need to get back to the studio.”
“Aren’t you finished teaching for the day?” he asked, before she could take a step.
“I am.” She couldn’t help but smile, despite her very real, very pressing urge to flee. Baby Nutcracker was one thing that seemed to be going right in her life. “Class was great today. You should have seen the kids working on the dance of the snowflakes choreography. It was adorable.”
“I’m looking forward to seeing it Christmas Eve.”
“Of course.” Her smile faded, as it always did when someone mentioned Christmas Eve. It had always been her favorite day on the calendar, but not anymore. Not this year. “Anyway, I’m going back to do a little painting after hours.”
“Painting?” He angled his head, and peering into his blue eyes was so like lifting her face to a crystal-clear sky that she had to look away.
She aimed her focus across the street, where a group of tourists was gathered around a Salvation Army volunteer ringing a bell and lip-synching to Mariah Carey Christmas songs. “I’m making a few improvements at the school. You know, so we can put our best foot forward at the recital.”
“And you’re painting the walls yourself?” He seemed puzzled, but then again, Chloe supposed billionaires typically didn’t spend their off-hours doing manual labor.
“Yes.” She lifted a brow. “It’s really not that difficult. You should try it sometime.”
He shrugged and his mouth curved in a half smile. “Okay.”
And then, before she could wrap her mind around what he was doin
g, he moved past her toward the curb with his arm raised. A black town car materialized out of nowhere, because of course Anders Kent was the sort of man who got what he wanted, exactly when he wanted it.
It was beyond annoying, especially when he looked at Chloe as if the thing he wanted most of all was her.
One more week. That’s all.
“What are you doing?” She made no move toward the curb, where he stood holding the door of the sleek black car open for her. And she tried her best not to look at the leather interior of the back seat or think about how much warmer and comfortable it would be than the subway.
“I’m going with you to help you paint. You said I should try it sometime.” He leaned against the car and crossed his feet at the ankles, clearly prepared to wait things out while she tried to come up with an excuse to turn him down.
“But you’re wearing a suit. You can’t paint dressed like that.”
“Watch me.” He held out his hand, reaching for hers, and all she had to do was walk away, toward the subway station. Or make some kind of excuse to go back upstairs, and then she could leave in a little while, once he was busy with a work call or something.
She didn’t do either of those things, though. Instead, she placed her hand in his and let him help her into the car, telling herself all the while that it would be fine. They’d be painting the walls, not slow dancing. Besides, no one fell into bed doing manual labor together.
But nestled beside her husband in the warm car, while twilight descended on the city and Manhattan shimmered in the golden glow of twinkle lights, looking as radiant as it could only at this time of year, she had to fight the urge to rest her head on his shoulder. To press her thigh against his just to feel the solid warmth of his presence before she lost it. To climb into his lap and kiss the winter chill from his lips.
And then she began to realize that falling into bed shouldn’t be her biggest worry.
After all, she was a dancer, and as every ballerina knew, there were far more dangerous ways to fall.
* * *
An hour later, when there was a brush in Anders’s hand and paint splatters covering his oxford shirt and bespoke wool dress pants, he was willing to admit that he probably should have changed clothes before heading to the studio.
All the same, he had no regrets. If he’d paused long enough to go upstairs and change, he would’ve given Chloe the opportunity to leave without him. And he couldn’t bear the thought of being stuck in the empty penthouse all evening.
He’d lived alone his entire adult life, so he should have felt perfectly content in an empty apartment. But he’d grown accustomed to the happy chatter that had filled the space for the past seven days. He liked the pitter-patter of Lolly’s tiny feet as she chased Prancer around the Christmas tree. He liked listening to Chloe’s voice—as silvery and lovely as tinsel. He liked falling asleep at night knowing that she was in the same room, even though the small amount of feet that separated them felt like miles.
She was there.
A week from now, she wouldn’t be.
He wanted to hoard what time he had left with her as if it were gold, and if that meant that one of his best suits suddenly looked like something straight out of the Museum of Modern Art, then so be it.
“You’re surprisingly good at this.” Chloe watched as he covered the last bare patch of wall with color in the main classroom.
They’d been alone for hours, sometimes painting in comfortable silence, sometimes talking about all the time Chloe had spent here as a child. He liked hearing new details about her life, filling in the blanks of her past and getting to know her better. He’d seen the tiny flare of panic in her eyes when Emily and Allegra had left for the evening, taking Lolly with them for another cozy Wilde sleepover.
He also knew what that look meant—his wife was trying her best not to be alone with him. But they’d needed this. He was tired of pretending their night together had been a mistake. It hadn’t been a mistake at all.
It had been perfect.
And the way he kept catching her looking at him tonight when she thought he wasn’t paying attention told him she thought so, too.
She glanced at him again, her gaze flitting from his hands to his mouth to his eyes before she flushed and looked away. “Seriously, is there anything you can’t do? I would have never expected a legendary bachelor businessman to be handy with a paintbrush.”
“I’m not a bachelor anymore, remember?” He arched a brow at her and carefully placed his brush in the drip tray. “And there are plenty of things I can’t do.”
She rolled her eyes. “Like what?”
“Like dance. I’m a hopeless disaster on the dance floor.”
Her mouth dropped open, giving him a tantalizing glimpse of her perfect, pink tongue. “I don’t believe you.”
He held up his hands. “Would I lie to a dancer about my having two left feet?”
“Be honest.” Her gaze narrowed. “Is this outrageous falsehood just an attempt at getting me to slow dance with you?”
He reached behind her and gave her ponytail a playful tug, eliciting a wholly satisfying gasp. “There’s only one way to find out, isn’t there?”
“Well.” He could see the wheels turning in her pretty little head. She had the same little furrow between her brows that she always got when he undressed for bed. Temptation. “I suppose I owe you a dance lesson, since you just spent your evening painting with me and ruined your suit.”
“One dance, then we’ll call it even. Deal?” He offered his hand for a shake.
She took it in her own, and the simple, innocent contact of her fingertips brushing against his was enough to make him hard. He didn’t just want her. He craved her. He’d been craving her for a week straight.
“Deal.” She smiled. “Do you think we’ll ever have a normal, spontaneous interaction or will everything we do together be part of some kind of prenegotiated arrangement?”
He waited to answer until she slid an album out of its cardboard sleeve, situated it on the record player, and strains of something sultry and French filled the air.
“Well?” she asked, after she’d walked back toward him and stood close enough for him to see the tiny gold flecks in the depths of her beautiful brown eyes. “Do you?”
“I really don’t care one way or another, so long as I get to touch you...” He slid a hand around her to the small of her back. “...here.”
She bit back a smile.
“And here,” he said, taking her hand in his so that they were in a traditional dance hold.
“Well played, husband,” she murmured, as they swayed to the music.
“Thank you, wife,” he whispered into her hair.
They stayed like that, hand in hand, thigh to thigh, reveling in the familiar heat of one another...waltzing...wanting...until long after the music ended and their only accompaniment was the sound of their hearts, beating as one.
“Just as I suspected,” Chloe said, lips moving softly against his neck. “You lied. You’re a fantastic dancer.”
He let out a low aching laugh. “We have to stop, or we’re going to have to renegotiate another one of our key terms.”
She pulled away just enough to meet his gaze. “I thought you’d never ask.”
Then she rose up on tiptoe and kissed him as if she had every intention of welcoming him into her bed again, which she did.
Every single night until Christmas Eve.
Chapter Thirteen
“All rise. The Family Court of the City of New York is now in session, the Honorable Judge Patricia Norton presiding.” The bailiff stood in the corner of the room with his hands folded neatly in front of him as a robed woman entered the paneled room.
This is it, Anders thought as he rose to his feet. This was the moment that had been hanging over him since he’d learned about the special pr
ovisions in Grant’s and Olivia’s wills. Had it really been less than a month ago? It felt like years since he’d last seen his brother’s face. So much had changed. He wondered what Grant would think if he could see him now, standing alongside Chloe.
Would he be proud?
Shocked?
Probably some combination of both, at least until he realized the marriage wasn’t real. The fact that Anders had been desperate enough to hire a wife wouldn’t have come as a shock to his brother at all. A disappointment, sure. But not a surprise. Everyone knew Anders Kent wasn’t a family man.
Strangely enough, he felt like one now. Something about finally being face-to-face with the person who would decide whether or not he would be Lolly’s father figure brought out a fiercely protective instinct that had him gripping the wooden railing separating the bench from the courtroom’s front row, where he, Chloe and Lolly had been waiting with Anders’s attorney. He glanced at them—at Lolly’s dainty, innocent face and Chloe’s exquisite, feminine features—and a familiar sense of panic seized his chest.
For weeks, the three of them had been living under the same roof. They’d eaten meals together, shared secrets and hung stockings from the mantel with their names spelled out in glitter. For six nights running, he and Chloe had spent their nights in the same bed, touching, kissing, loving. What had started out as a charade no longer felt like one. And as he looked at them now, he realized why the hollow feeling he’d felt right after Grant’s accident was beginning to gnaw at him again...to consume him.
It was because some way, somehow, while they were pretending to be a family, they’d actually become one. Lolly and Chloe were his. No matter what happened here today, they would both be etched on his heart forever.
And now he might lose them both.
“You may be seated,” Judge Norton said, peering down at a stack of papers on her desk after giving the people in her courtroom a cursory once-over.