by Lauren Layne
He glances down at the book in his hand and turns it around so I can see the cover. The Modern Woman’s Guide to Leadership. “Don’t recall this one being in my collection.”
“Some of the books have to be mine,” I point out. “I’m supposed to live here too, and I can assure you, I wouldn’t be touching your Edgar Allan Poe collection. It’ll be weird if the room is entirely masculine, with only your stuff.”
“Is that why there’s a pink glittery stapler on my desk?”
“Our desk,” I say, patting his knee and standing. “For the rest of the afternoon, it’s our desk. Our office. Our home.” I look him over. “You should change into something more comfortable.”
He lifts his eyebrows.
“Relax. I’m not trying to get in your pants. You look like you just came from the office.”
“I did just come from the office. Something Gordon will likely understand since he set up the meeting for three p.m. on a Thursday.”
“Still, shouldn’t we look a little more … domestic?”
“Which means what? Levis and slippers?”
“If I took the time to make my beastly hair pin straight,” I say, pointing at my head, “the least you can do is ditch the jacket and tie.”
“Fine.”
He heads into the bedroom, and I take one last look at the office. Not bad—I can practically picture Colin behind the antique desk working, maybe the two of us reading side-by-side in the chairs, my legs draped casually over his knees …
I hope Gordon Price can picture it too.
The stack of mail looks a little too neat, so I pick it up and then drop it down again, letting envelopes and catalogs scatter a little, as though one of us tossed it there as an afterthought, the way a normal couple might.
I turn on the lamp and leave the room, going into the bedroom. Our bedroom. Because convincing Gordon Price that we sleep in the same bed is sort of a no-brainer if we want him to think we’re trying to make this marriage work.
Hence the quick transformation of the second bedroom from guest room to office.
I’ve known all week what was coming, but I realize now that the idea of sharing a bedroom with Colin is different from actually seeing it in practice. Or maybe I just haven’t let myself think about how intimate it would be. It’s a little strange to see my water bottle and Kindle on one nightstand and his glasses case and book on the other.
Then there’s my razor in his shower. Our toothbrushes side by side in his bathroom.
“Charlotte?” he calls from the closet.
“Hmm?”
I go to the walk-in closet where he’s standing with his hand on his hips. “What’s all this?”
“My clothes,” I say, pointing out the obvious. “It’d be sort of a giveaway if I had all my clothes in the second bedroom closet.”
“True. But why is it so—”
“Lived in?” I say.
“Messy.”
“Well, believe it or not, some people have a wardrobe containing more than two colors.”
“Don’t you have a system?”
I blink. “A system? For a closet?”
He gestures at the haphazardly hung clothes. “To organize them in some way. Color? Season? Fabric.”
“No, dear. I don’t have a system.”
“Sometimes I don’t know how you get through the day,” he grumbles.
“Ooh, that’s good,” I say. “Be sure and whine about that to Gordon. Classic marriage gripe right there. The uptight neat freak who tries to tame the free spirit.”
“An interesting way to phrase the fact that you’re a bit of a slob.”
“Just because I don’t alphabetize my stuff by brand doesn’t make me a slob,” I argue in exaggeration. “You act like my stuff’s all over the floor. My clothes are hanging up!”
“The hangers don’t even match.”
My eyes go wide then narrow when I see his slight smile. “Oh, that’s really fantastic. You tell jokes now.”
“It’s the only way I can think to cope with the pain of this,” he says, gesturing at my side of the closet, which, I’ll grant, compared to his side does look a little chaotic.
“I’ll tell you what,” I say. “If we pass this test, I’ll let you rearrange my clothes however you want.”
“If we pass this test, I can get your clothes out of my closet.”
I’m glad his back is still to me, because I flinch at the reminder of just how eager he is to be rid of all things Charlotte. “Right.”
I back out of the closet. “Okay, so you sleep on the left side of the bed, me on the right. Or do we sleep in the middle? Do we cuddle?”
He emerges from the closet. He’s still wearing the tie, but it’s deliberately loosened, and he’s lost the suit jacket, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows. “I hardly think Immigration Services is going to ask if we cuddle.”
“Especially since you’re a cheater,” I say, turning toward him.
“Yeah, about that—what are you doing?” he asks in alarm as I reach out for his shirt.
I tug one side of it, pulling it upwards until the tail of his shirt is just barely tucked into his slacks.
“Trying to make you look relaxed,” I say. “As though this is your haven, and when you walk in the doors, you let loose.”
“I can’t let loose with my shirt tucked in?”
I shake my head. “No wonder our marriage is crumbling.”
I sit on the side of the bed and rub at the still slightly sore spot on my head from where it hit the desk.
He gives me a concerned look. “You’re sure you’re all right?”
I drop my hand. “My head’s fine. But I have butterflies.”
“About the interview?”
I nod. “I don’t think my acting skills are up to snuff. I have no idea how to play the part of a woman who fell in love with her brother’s best friend ten years ago, married him on a whim, got her heart broken when he cheated, ran away to California, stayed there out of pride, then came back to valiantly try to patch things up, all while trying to plant seeds that it’s not working so there won’t be a complete shock when you file for divorce in a month.”
He slowly sits on the bed beside me. “Well. Thanks to your stellar performance last week, I think it’ll probably be better if it’s you that files for divorce.”
“I just couldn’t get past the betrayal,” I say in a shaky voice, as though holding back tears.
He smiles a little grimly but doesn’t respond.
I look down at my hands. “What does Rebecca think about all this?”
“She’ll be as glad as the rest of us when it’s all over.”
More so, probably. “Does she know about …” I jerk my thumb behind us at the bed we’re sitting on.
“That I’ll be sleeping on the couch tonight?”
“I already told you I can sleep on the couch. It’s your bed.”
He shakes his head. “No. You’ve already done enough.”
“Right. The office,” I say. My voice sounds a little flat to my own ears.
“I was going to say your efforts with your hair. You’re right. On second look, it does say everything you want it to say. It’s practically screaming domestic bliss.”
I smile because I know, in a rare role reversal, he’s trying to cheer me up, even though I’m not exactly sure why I’m feeling so glum. Or rather, I do know. I just don’t know what to do about it.
I don’t realize I’m twisting my wedding ring until I see Colin watching the absent gesture, his expression darkening slightly, and I wonder if he’s regretting giving me the ring.
“You can have it back when we’re done,” I say.
He frowns. “What?”
I hold up my left hand. “It’s too much. I know what it costs, and it’s way too much given our … situation.”
“Keep it,” he says gruffly.
“But—”
“Keep it.”
“Well, I guess you can’t do anythi
ng with it,” I say. “You probably don’t want to drive all the way to Hudson to return it. Oh, I know! You could give it to Rebecca!”
He lets out a surprised laugh at my cheerful sarcasm. “That should go over well. Besides, it’s not her style.”
I scowl, slightly offended. “It’s gorgeous. It’s everyone’s style.”
“She’s more … modern.”
“Ah.” I twist the ring. “I am too, usually, but this one … it’s special.”
There’s another moment of silence.
“So you two have talked about rings?” I ask softly. “Have you shopped yet?”
This sense of not really wanting to know while also really needing to know is increasingly familiar and highly annoying.
Colin shakes his head and stands. “I’m not going to talk about ring shopping with one woman who’s not even here, while I’m in the same room as a woman who’s supposed to be my wife. You are my wife.”
The words cause an ache deep inside of me, but I force a bright smile. “Good! That’s good. That tone’s exactly what you should use in front of Gordon Price.”
“What tone?”
“You know.” I flex my muscles and squeeze my own bicep. “All manly and possessive. It’s good. Husbandly. Like I’m yours. Have you been practicing?”
Colin doesn’t have a chance to answer because the doorbell rings.
My eyes go wide. “Is that him? I told the guys at the front desk to let him up whenever he got here, but he’s super early!”
“It’s a smart tactic,” Colin says grimly. “Catching people off guard before they can put the final polish on.”
“Well, he already knows our relationship’s got a bit of tarnish,” I say as we head down the hall to the front door. “All we have to do is convince him that everything was shiny and new back in the beginning.”
He nods in agreement, glancing down at me before opening the door. I feel a moment of panic—a moment of something—and reach out and grab his hand. He squeezes my fingers briefly, his gaze holding mine before dropping my hand and opening the door.
CHAPTER 32
THURSDAY, OCTOBER 29
“We did it,” I say, dropping into the new chair in the home office in a daze. “Holy crap, I think we actually did it.”
“Well, I’m sure your descriptive accounts about our sexual proclivities helped,” Colin says, handing me a glass of Champagne.
“It wasn’t that pornographic. He just asked if you were a neat freak in all areas, and I said, no, not always. That in the more intimate areas of your life, you were actually quite—”
“Yeah,” he interrupts. “I was there. I remember.”
“This is good,” I say, looking at the glass of Champagne in surprise. “What is it?”
“Expensive,” he says, dropping into the chair beside me. “Think that bottle I bought for the halfway mark, and double it.”
“Well, it was worth it. And we have plenty to celebrate,” I say, lifting my glass. “Gordon Price all but told us that the third and final interview would just be a formality.”
“Thanks to you,” he says, watching me. “I’m fairly certain you saved the day yet again this afternoon by mentioning Rebecca’s ex.”
“I did, didn’t I?” I say smugly, pulling my legs beneath me. “I figured if he knew we knew who’d tipped him off about our marriage and knew that the person had a personal vendetta, it might diffuse some of his interest.”
“He didn’t seem all that interested to begin with,” Colin says, studying his Champagne.
“No, not really,” I agree.
As nerve-racking as today had been, Gordon Price had seemed more like bored government employee than shark out to expose us for the frauds we were. His questions had been rote, his demeanor indifferent. Either he’d been trying to lull us into complacency so that we’d relax too much and slip up and spill the beans, or he’d been truly disinterested.
Mostly he’d wandered from room to room, checking boxes, asking the exact same questions I’d found on the Internet, with no follow-up. Who cooked? Me. Did I know how Colin took his coffee? Black. Who was the messy one? Me. What side of the bed did we sleep on? Left, him; right, me. Did my messiness bother Colin? “Most assuredly, yes.”
On that, at least, he’d been able to answer quite honestly.
Just like I had quite honestly “let it slip” that Colin’s lover had an ex with a vendetta who’d love nothing more than to see Colin deported. Gordon Price, God bless him, had eaten it up.
“Two down, one to go,” I say, lifting my hand for a high five.
He stares at my hand. “Must we?”
“I saved our ass, remember?” I say. “You owe me.”
He obliges me, slapping my palm. “Guess you were right about the hair.”
I make a primping motion. “Don’t get used to it. Tomorrow it goes back to tousled waves.”
“The hairstyle has a name?”
I shake my head. “Of course it has a name. Jeez. You know—Rebecca owes me. I’m like your wife training wheels, teaching all the things you need to know about living with a woman, starting with the importance of our hair.”
He gives a distracted nod and sips his bubbly. “I didn’t realize the third and final interviews would take place with us separated.”
“Me neither,” I say. “But I guess it makes sense, separating the couples so we don’t know what the other said. Come to think of it, you’d better bring your A-game.” I point my drink at him. “I won’t be there to save you that time, so don’t screw it up.”
He scrunches up his face in concentration. “Just so I’m clear, I should or should not mention that you and I had exchanged fewer than a hundred words prior to saying I do, and that I really wanted that green card …”
“Another joke!” I say, delighted. “I’m rubbing off on you.”
“God save me.” But he’s smiling as he says it, and I can’t help but think how far we’ve come in two short months, from two strangers literally counting down the days until this hell was over to …
Well, whatever we are now. I don’t know that there’s a name for it.
“Want to order in?” he asks.
I look up in surprise. “You’re not having dinner with Rebecca?”
“She has a client meeting,” he says, flipping through his phone. “Thai or pizza?”
I stifle disappointment that he’s only doing dinner with me because she’s not available, which I know is ridiculous. Rebecca is someone he chose. I’m someone he’s stuck with. But selfishly, I’ll take whatever time I can get with him, so I push the glum aside.
“How about Thai?” I say. “No, pizza. No! What about tacos? Ooh, or that Indian we ordered last week was super yummy. Or maybe—”
He holds his cell phone. “Thai. Ordered.”
“You don’t even know my order!”
“Coconut shrimp, chive dumpling, pad Thai, and you’ll help yourself to my green curry without asking, eat half of it, and then tell me all the reasons you don’t love it.”
“Nice.” I nod in approval. “Keep it coming with all this domestic discontent, especially during your solo meeting with Gordon Price. You’ll sell not only our marriage but also our impending divorce.”
“Only one month to go,” he says, lifting his glass.
I manage to raise mine in an answering toast.
But I can’t quite manage a smile to go with it.
CHAPTER 33
THURSDAY, OCTOBER 29
“Did you find the spare sheets?” I call out, pulling Colin’s pillow off his side of the bed. He’s got a surprising amount of pillows on the bed for a guy who lives alone, and the Thai food churns a little in my stomach as I wonder if the mountain of extra pillows is Rebecca’s touch. I wonder how many times she’s slept over, I wonder …
No. That’s enough. I’ll never be able to get to sleep in this bed if I continue with that train of thought, and I’m not up for another fifteen-minute argument with Colin over who t
akes the couch.
If I had to guess, I’d imagine Colin a single pillow kind of guy, but on the off chance he likes a mountain of them, I grab three of them off the bed.
“Colin?” I call, tilting my head up so my voice can carry over the pile of pillows. “Did you hear what I said about the spare sheets? I put them in the—”
The rest of my sentence ends with an oomph as I step into the hallway and collide with something—someone. The pillows thump softly to the floor.
“What was the plan, building a fort?” Colin asks, as we both lean down to pick up the pillows.
“Nope. Smothering. I wanted to try out a couple different ones, see which felt the best as I held it over your face.”
“Uh-huh. Also, I’ve already got a pillow,” he says, a pillow under each arm, leaving me holding just one. “I grabbed the one in the linen closet with the guest sheets.”
“Yeah, but these are your pillows. If you’re going to have to sleep on the couch, your head should at least have a pillow that knows how to cradle your skull—”
“What are you—cradle my skull—you know what, never mind. Just never mind.” He shakes his head and moves past me into the bedroom, tossing the pillows back on the bed.
“Well, I need the one that cradles my skull,” I call over my shoulder, going to the living room couch and swapping the pillows.
I’m staring dubiously at the couch as he comes back into the living room. He’s wearing flannel pants and a navy T-shirt; I’m wearing his boxers and undershirt, which has become my nightly uniform. As grumpy as I was about having to give up my expensive silk pajama set, I have to admit, the new PJs are growing on me. There’s a certain comfort in oversized cotton.
Especially when, even after the wash, they still smell a tiny bit like Colin. At least that’s what I tell myself. And yes. I am well aware that I’m acting like a crazy, obsessed weirdo. Don’t worry. It’ll fade when I move out, and he moves on. Probably.
“What’s your issue?” he asks, coming to stand beside me as I stare at the makeshift bed. “Is that pillow not going to adequately cradle my skull?”