Dirty Little Midlife Mess: A Fake Relationship Romantic Comedy (Heart’s Cove Hotties Book 2)

by Lilian Monroe

  Wide-eyed, Alina looks at me like she doesn’t know the man in front of her. Hell, maybe she doesn’t. Maybe I’ve changed.

  I fucking hope so.

  She straightens her spine and lifts her chin, then puts an extra sway in her hips as she walks away.

  I knock the door closed with a crutch and sink down onto the floor, leaning my head against the edge of the bed. Anger leaks out of me as I deflate.

  Exhaustion settles over me like a blanket, and all I can do is sit here and ache.

  A while later—I don’t know how long—the doorknob turns. I watch it, eyes narrowing, and wait for it to open. Fiery red hair appears in the doorway and I let out a sigh. Simone stands in the opening, and when I say nothing, she slips inside and closes the door.

  She takes a seat beside me, smelling of fresh air on a cold evening. She leans her head back and crosses one ankle over the other, the heat of her arm soaking into mine.

  The last shard of ice melts in my heart, and I let out a sigh. “How was your walk?”

  “It was nice. I feel better.”

  “Good.”

  Instead of answering, Simone moves her hand and places it on top of my thigh. Warm, comforting, familiar. Her touch feels too good to be real. Another bit of tension dissolves inside me.

  “I found Alina in here and snapped at her.”

  “She told me.”

  “She did?”

  “Mm,” Simone answers. “I came in the door and it took her about three seconds to appear in the foyer with her arms crossed and a holier-than-thou look on her face. She said you were, quote, ‘extremely rude’ to her when she was here, and ‘must be feeling unwell due to the ankle and the stress of the day,’ but don’t worry”—Simone grins, tilting her head toward me—“she forgives you.”

  I snort.

  “I said that was very magnanimous of her. You know, I don’t think that woman understands sarcasm. She just gave me a self-satisfied nod and went to her room.”

  My next snort sounds almost like a chuckle. I shake my head. “I can’t believe I almost married her.”

  “Was she always like this?”

  “Arrogant, needy, manipulative?” I ask.

  “Mm.”

  “Probably. I don’t even know anymore.” I let out a long sigh and shake my head. “I shouldn’t have gotten mad at her. Seeing her in this room…it felt…sacrilegious. Like she was desecrating the memory of my parents.”

  Simone’s hand tightens on my thigh, her thumb making small circles over my pants.

  I turn to look at her, pinching my lips together. “That sounds ridiculous, I know.”

  “It doesn’t.”

  “I haven’t been in this room for months. With the café leased to you four, this room is all I have of them.” My voice cracks, and Simone’s brows draw together. She lifts her hand to my face, letting her fingers skate over my cheek. I close my eyes, leaning into her touch. It feels too good to resist right now. I don’t want to push her away. Having her here, beside me in this room, it doesn’t feel like a sacrilege. It feels good.

  “When my parents died,” she says, “it took me a full year to sort through their house. Thank goodness they’d paid the mortgage, because if I’d had to get rid of the house right away, I think it would’ve broken me.” Her fingers drift to my temple and down to my jaw. I keep my eyes closed as she speaks. “You grow up thinking your parents are invincible, and then you get older and logically, you know they’ll pass away. Death is inevitable. In your head you know it’s going to happen, but it’s still a horrible shock when it does. It’s so…final.”

  “I wasn’t ready,” I admit.

  “None of us are. You don’t need to explain why you don’t want anyone in this space, Wes. And you don’t need to feel guilty about throwing us out of it. You grieve the way you want to grieve, okay?”

  I open my eyes to see her staring at me, her pale blue irises almost silver in the moonlight. Her hand is still on my cheek, thumb sliding over my stubble.

  The need to be honest with Simone builds up inside me, a pressure that needs release. This whole situation—the will, the trust, my failed business, my parents’ deaths, the fake relationship with Simone—it’s worn me down to nothing. The words come before I can stop them.

  “I lied to them,” I whisper.

  Simone frowns. “To your parents?”

  Nodding, I swallow past the ball of emotion in my throat. “They thought my business was going well. I told them I had investors, which was true, but I didn’t tell them the investors had pulled out. Three years before they died, my venture officially died. I was over three hundred grand in debt, Alina had left me, and I was nearly out on the street. I worked three jobs. At a bank during the day, rideshare driving in the evenings, stocking shelves at night. Paid off all but sixty grand of the debt when they died.”

  My throat is so tight it’s hard to speak, but I need to get the words out. I need to tell Simone about my greatest shame, if only to say it out loud. I think a part of me wants to tell her, too, because I don’t want to hide who I am from her. All the ugly parts of me.

  “My parents worked their whole lives to build their wealth. They never had high-paying jobs, but they were savers. They invested. They built this house over years, slowly expanding and upgrading it while they ran the café. I didn’t think they had as much as they did. I didn’t know I’d be inheriting anything, let alone a couple of million. They’d bought and sold a couple properties in the area and made a lot of money, reinvested it. They were clever. When my father died, he told me they were leaving it all to me. They were so proud of what I’d done, how hard I’d worked, what I’d made of myself. He said I reminded him of himself, of his industriousness. Part of the will was a gift that I inherited when they died, and the rest—the money, the house, the café, the land—it’s in a trust. My father told me marrying my mother was the greatest joy of his life, and he wanted me to find someone to share my life with. He said he knew Alina wasn’t the one, but he was confident there was someone out there for me, I just needed to open my heart and allow that person to come. So my parents put a condition on the trust—I have to be married by the time I’m forty-five to access anything in it.” I suck in a breath, focusing on the slow, steady movement of her fingers over my temple. “I didn’t have the guts to tell them I was a failure. I was up to my eyeballs in debt, and after they passed, I had to use their hard-earned gift to pay off my debts. It made me feel sick. The thought of then inheriting all the rest of it… I don’t deserve any of it. I turn forty-five in eighteen months, and I just figured I’d spend that time saying goodbye. None of this should be mine, anyway.”

  It takes all my effort to meet Simone’s gaze. I expect to see pity, or a hint of judgement. Instead, I see softness.

  She combs her fingers through my hair in a way that sends tingles down my spine. Her touch is like magic. “Wes, you deserve it all,” she finally says. “Even if your venture flopped, you crawled out of the hole and didn’t give up. You paid over two hundred grand in debt with your own hard work. Using sixty thousand dollars of your inheritance to finish it off should be something that makes you proud, not ashamed.”

  “I failed.”

  “You survived. You kept fighting.”

  “I shouldn’t have used their money to fix my mistakes. I don’t deserve the rest of what they earned.”

  She’s quiet for a beat. “Am I right in assuming everything in the trust would go to your uncle if it doesn’t go to you?”

  I shake my head. “It’ll get chopped up. I’ll get part of it, he’ll get some, various charities will get the rest. The land will be donated to Heart’s Cove to be turned into a nature reserve, apart from a half-acre around the house and lodge. That goes to Sean.”

  Simone’s eyes glitter like two aquamarine jewels. Somehow, my hand has slid onto her thigh. Her fingers are still running over my scalp, her other hand moving to my chest. The only time we’ve ever been this close is at night, when our bo
dies wrap themselves around each other while we sleep despite all our efforts to stay apart.

  “Your parents would be prouder of your efforts to get yourself out of that hole and start over than they would be if your very first attempt at a business was a roaring success. Resilience is admirable, Wes, and you have truckloads of it.”

  Maybe it’s the way Simone’s looking at me. Maybe it’s the breathiness of her voice when she finishes that sentence. Maybe it’s just the fact that all I’ve been dreaming about is her lips, and hearing her say something like that about me mends some small ache in my heart.

  Whatever it is, her words sink in. A rush of heat floods my body, and I can’t take it anymore. I can’t take having this beautiful woman by my side every day and not being able to crush my lips to hers. I can’t take the dreams and thoughts and fantasies of claiming her body without being able to touch her. I need her like I need air. I need to taste her lips. I need to feel her skin against mine, her arms around my neck. I need to be able to run my hands over her body—otherwise I’ll go insane.

  It’s more than lust. This need crawls up from somewhere deeper inside me. Some broken part of me that wants a woman like Simone to look at me like she needs me, too.

  “Simone,” I rasp.

  “Yes?” A breathy whisper, barely audible.

  “I want to kiss you.”

  We’ve drifted closer, almost nose to nose. Her hand is on the side of my face, her other fingers curling into my shirt. My own hand is sinking into her hip, dragging her closer.

  She tilts her head a fraction of an inch, her chin dipping in a nod. It’s all the permission I need. I close the distance between us and kiss her.

  Simone’s lips taste like candy. She parts them for me and I swipe my tongue over hers, groaning when I finally, finally get to taste her. Touching her feels like starlight dancing over my skin. Her mouth is the sun, the moon, the sky. My entire universe shrinks until all that exists is me and her and our lips.

  I’m hungry for her. Starved. My hand moves to her cheek, tangling into her hair, pulling her closer so I can taste her more, more, more. When she claws at my shirt, fingernails scraping against my collarbone, I groan against her mouth.

  Fuck fake. Forget about this being a business arrangement, about keeping my distance. Maybe tomorrow I’ll care about any of that. All I want right now…is her.

  17

  Simone

  I’m kissing Wesley Byron. I’m kissing Wesley Byron.

  In some distant part of my brain, I realize this is a bad idea. It muddies already murky waters. But I cave to the desire coursing through my body and ignore logic, reason, and responsibility.

  And damn, it feels good.

  My body arches into him as we sit on the floor, his hand curled into the hair at the nape of my neck. It’s possessive, the way he holds me. Like he’s dreamed of exactly how he’d want to kiss me, and he’s finally getting to do it. My own hands have ended up twisted in his hair, his shirt. His lips drop to my jaw and he groans—oh, that sound—as his tongue slides over the skin of my neck. When he pulls my head back and leaves a trail of kisses down my throat, I have to gulp down air in short gasps.

  After a week of absolute hell, when everything went sideways and every decision I made seemed to be the wrong one, this feels so right. As my fingers rip open the top few buttons of his shirt and my hands finally skate over those broad expanses of muscle, I sigh against Wesley’s cheek.

  “I’ve been waiting so long for this,” Wes growls, his lips near my collarbone. “You have no idea, Simone.”

  “I have some idea.” My chuckle is breathy.

  The way his mouth moves over my skin makes my mind spiral. His lips move back up my neck as he inhales me, groaning as his teeth scrape over my earlobe. Fire jolts down my spine, pooling between my legs. My thighs are so hot I can feel every pulse of my heart. Every stitch of clothing on my skin.

  Swinging my leg over to straddle him, I land on his lap with my forearms resting on Wes’s shoulders. He leans his head back against the bed, eyes hooded and dangerous, hands sliding around my waist to rest on my lower back. A languid smile teases his lips, those damn dimples making me wish our clothes would dissolve into thin air.

  Wes’s fingers draw slow circles over the skin on my back. “When you came crashing through the forest that first day—”

  “Crashing?”

  His grin widens, eyes sparking. God, that expression on his face makes me want to melt. Like he’s got me right where he wants me. Like I’m just a little rabbit trapped in his paws, and now he can slow down and play with me. I stop myself from grinding my hips against him, even though all I want to do is roll my hips until I feel how much he wants me, too.

  “I thought you were crazy,” Wes finally says. One hand moves from my back to my chest, his broad palm lying flat on my breastbone. His fingers tease the neckline of my shirt, and then it’s his turn to pop my buttons open. One, then the next, then the next.

  When my shirt lays open, his eyes drop to my chest. Hunger sparks in his gaze, and I’ve never felt sexier. He stares at me like I’m the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen. His fingers move slowly, as if he wants to commit every line of my body to memory.

  “You walked up to me and demanded I drive you home,” he growls. “All fire and attitude. No fear.” Fingertips slide down my bra strap and trace its outline over my breasts.

  Heat curls in my gut as my back arches toward him before I can stop myself, as if my body needs more. Demands more.

  The day I met Wesley, I was lost in the forest and I came upon some shirtless, tattooed Adonis chopping wood beside his cabin. I thought it was some sort of fever dream served up by my pesky hormones. It wasn’t. He really was shirtless, chopping wood, looking like he wanted to chop me.

  “I was afraid,” I admit, my voice breathy. “It was dark and I was lost and you had an axe.”

  His fingers move lower, to the space between my breasts. My pulse hammers so hard I’m sure he can hear it, but Wes doesn’t move any faster. His fingers trace the other side of my bra, teasing the skin on my breast as he lets out a long sigh.

  “Do you remember—you explained to me what a conversation was? You said, ‘It’s called a conversation, Wesley. I say something, then you respond with something related, then we do it again a few times. It’s actually considered quite normal among humans.’” His hand moves higher again, and I miss the warmth of his fingers on my breasts. He traces my bra strap up to my shoulder and pauses.

  My lips twitch. “You seemed confused.”

  “You pissed me the hell off. I wanted to throw you out and tell you to walk home. I told myself I was glad I didn’t have to deal with you any longer, because I could barely stand being in the cab of the truck beside you for the ten minutes it took to drive you back.”

  “Is that right?” My grin widens, and then I see something in Wes’s eyes that makes me pause.

  Feral hunger lines his face as his eyes rise up to mine. The hand that was on my back moves to my other shoulder. He hooks his hands over my shirt and under my bra straps, then tugs. My shirt and bra slide down, pinning my arms to my sides. Oh. Oh, wow.

  He drops his gaze to my breasts, releasing a breath that says a thousand things. It says he’s been waiting for this, wanting this, imagining this.

  When he speaks again, his voice is nothing but a gravelly rasp. “I told myself I never wanted to see you again, then went home and jerked off to the thought of you.” His right hand palms my left breast. “I came so hard thinking of bending you over and fucking that attitude out of you, Simone. You woke something up inside me that I haven’t been able to ignore.”

  Breath catches in my throat. My nipples peak as heat floods my body from head to toe. With my arms stuck to my sides by way too many layers of clothing, my legs straddling Wes’s lap, and his hands painting fire over my skin, I’m not sure I need him to bend me over and fuck me. I might just come apart right here, like this.

  And
when he rolls my nipple between his thumb and forefinger, a jolt of pleasure rocks me. I gasp, arching, and let myself grind my hips against him. Wesley moans at the movement, dropping his lips to my breast. God, his mouth feels good. I close my eyes and lean back, loving the way he touches me. Tastes me. Bites me. His hands are possessive as they hold me in place, one muscled arm hooking around my body to keep me pinned right where he wants me, my clothing twisted around my arms so I can’t move. Not that I want to.

  How the hell did we get here? A couple of hours ago, I was at a disastrous Thanksgiving dinner. I was waiting for the next bad thing to happen because I knew my life was just one big train wreck. Best friend angry with me, bank account dangerously low, and fake boyfriend having a mental breakdown over his uncle’s engagement.

  Now I’m straddling the hottest man I’ve ever seen, feeling his tongue slide over my pebbled nipple as he groans like he’s tasting the sweetest nectar.

  There was a time when I worried that I was getting older, that I was past my prime, that life was passing me by. It was around the time I turned forty. I’d been divorced for four years at that point and had no prospects, a fledgling business and a couple side jobs, and my love life consisted of a string of first dates. Logically, I knew it wasn’t over, but then I’d look in the mirror and pluck out half a dozen grey hairs and more than a few wiry black ones from my chin. I’d find new wrinkles around my eyes, deeper laugh lines around my mouth. It felt like I’d wasted my chance at a happy, successful life.

  But in this moment, with Wes’s hands and mouth claiming me, I know I was wrong. I haven’t wasted any chances. My body is healthy and it still works, damn it. I’m a woman who wants sex and passion and a man who makes me feel like I’m going to come with nothing but a swipe of his tongue across my skin. I’m smart and driven and I’m a survivor. A fighter. Every time life knocks me down, I’ll get back up again. Over and over and over again—because I want moments like this. Moments that make me feel alive.