by Kelsie Rae
Oh. Right.
Clearing my throat, I force myself back into my own seat. “Don’t mention it. Seriously. Everyone has you pegged for being a worthless party boy, and it’s not fair to you.” Or to my heart, I think to myself before continuing. “Anyway, I’m just happy I can help you get out from beneath your dad’s thumb so you can continue giving back to the world in your own unique way, ya know?”
His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t reply. Instead, he simply gives me a jerky nod before turning back toward the window and ignoring me completely.
Okay then.
We land twenty minutes later, falling into a comfortable silence while prepping for the day ahead of us. I’ve heard jet lag is a bitch, and I guess I’m going to find out firsthand if I can handle it or not.
As we grab our carry-on luggage, I ask, “Did you sleep at all?”
He shrugs. “Not too bad, actually. Turns out your head is a pretty good pillow.”
Cheeks heating, I look down at my feet before finding the courage to respond. “Noted. Your, uh…your shoulder is a pretty good pillow too.”
“Noted.”
The passengers continue to lumber down the main aisle of the plane, and we follow suit before grabbing a taxi that takes us to our Airbnb. The place is gorgeous. It’s a one-bedroom apartment with white walls, white rugs, white cabinets, and gray accents. It’s all very…white. And clean. And beautiful. However, when I see the white comforter laid across the king-sized bed, I realize a potential problem.
“Uh….” I gape, struggling to find my voice.
“There a problem?” Liam asks curiously, completely oblivious to the giant elephant in the room.
Lifting my chin to the large bed taking up the entire bedroom, I mutter, “There’s only one bed.”
He’s only confused for about two seconds before he comes to the same conclusion I did. “Oh.”
I laugh. “Yeah. Oh.”
“I didn’t even think about that when I booked the place. I’ll sleep on the couch or something. Not a big deal. Promise.”
“You sure?” My guilt threatens to eat a hole in my stomach as I imagine the six-foot one-inch guy in front of me trying to get comfortable on the tiny couch in the family room. I shake my head. “You know what? You’re right. It’s not a big deal. The bed is big. We’ll just keep to our own side, and it’ll be fine.”
“Seriously, Skye. I can sleep––”
“Seriously, Liam,” I mimic, a little annoyed that he doesn’t want to sleep in the same bed with me. Then I become even more annoyed when I realize I’m bugged that he’d prefer to use the couch, instead. Do I really smell that bad from the plane? Or maybe it’s just me, in general, that has him keeping his distance. I mean, sure, he didn’t have a problem sleeping with random women before our little ruse came to fruition, but why is he struggling now? Not that I want him to sleep with me but….
With a deep breath, I shove aside my insecurities and say, “I’m a big girl. And since this whole charade is exactly that––a charade––I don’t think we’ll have any issues keeping our hands to ourselves at night. We can sleep in the same bed. Besides, it’s not like you have cooties.”
I think the real question is…do you think I do?
“You sure?” he asks, eyeing me cautiously.
“Positive. Let me go shower really quick then you can show me Italy. Deal?”
“Deal.”
Chapter Eighteen
Skye
The hot water from the shower is enough to rejuvenate my tired bones and to stave off the jet lag for a few more hours. Liam and I take turns––separately, of course––before setting off to see the sights.
“So, where are we off to?” I ask while drinking up the quaint alleys lined with lush, green vines and vibrant flower pots. Italy is just as beautiful as all the pictures online. Hell, it’s even more beautiful, and that’s saying something.
We have a tour at the Colosseum in”––he checks his wristwatch––“thirty minutes.”
“Ooo! I’ve always wanted to go to the Colosseum!” I gush. “Have you seen Gladiator?”
“With Russell Crowe?” He gives me a look that says I’m dense for even asking. “Of course, I’ve seen it. It’s a classic.”
“Right? Can you imagine if we had gladiators today?”
Rolling his eyes, he says, “You’d probably love to have a bunch of Russell Crowes walking around so you could cheer them on.”
Throwing my head back in laughter, I razz, “Hell, yes, I would! But only the early 2000’s Russell Crowe. I mean, you can keep the old guy, but the early 2000’s one? Mmm….”
“Should I be offended on his behalf?” He clutches his chest as if I’ve physically wounded him. “What are you gonna do when I get old, huh? You gonna kick me to the curb too?”
“Uh, I believe you’re the one kicking me to the curb as soon as we get home, so I’m not sure you have a whole lot of room to talk.”
I step off the curb and into the street before Liam’s hand grabs onto my arm and wrenches me back as a little scooter comes flying by.
Oops.
Spinning around, I practically fall into his chest, my hands barely catching myself against his hard pecs as I look up at him with wide eyes. “Whoa. Thanks for that.”
“Don’t mention it,” he mutters. “You okay?”
“Yup.” I don’t miss the concern written across his face, but I shake it off and put some distance between us. Looking both ways this time, I cross the street, and Liam stays at my side.
“What were we talking about again?” I ask.
“Your fascination with the young Russell Crowe and how you plan on kicking your future husband to the curb once he gets too old for your liking….”
“Or gets a beer belly, whichever comes first,” I finish for him with a wink.
His deep, booming laughter greets me, and I turn to see his amused expression assessing the girl beside him.
Me.
“And here I thought men were the superficial ones.”
“You are. I’m much less high-maintenance than you, Mr. Fake Husband.”
“Whatever!” he argues. “You just full-on admitted you’d dump a guy as soon as he loses his six-pack!”
“And even if that were true, which it isn’t, by the way, I want a guy for his brains, not his bod, but that’s beside the point. Even if it were true, I still wouldn’t be as bad as you are. I’ve seen the girls you bring around, Liam. No offense, but you’re not exactly setting yourself up for a happy, long-term commitment type of relationship with the bimbos you bring to the house.”
“I married you, didn’t I?”
“Well, yeah, under the pretense that we get divorced as soon as possible. Not exactly what I’d call a stable relationship.”
“Oh, so, you’re suggesting we give this thing a real shot?” he refutes.
“Of course not!” My heart pounds against my rib cage at the prospect, but I ignore it. “We have an arrangement. Don’t worry. I know what I signed up for. I’m just saying that if you ever want a real wife, you might wanna try looking for a girl….” My voice trails off as I imagine Liam settling down for real. For some reason, it leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.
Sensing my hesitation, Liam pulls me aside as the Italian streets bustle around us.
“A girl like what, Skye?”
I shrug. “I dunno? Not your usual type?”
“And how do you know my usual type?”
“I dunno,” I repeat, feeling uncomfortable from the topic of conversation. I should’ve never brought this up.
“Tell me,” he pushes.
“Hot. Big boobs. Tiny waist. You know…Victoria’s Secret model.”
His eyes do a quick scan of my body before he steps away from me, shoves his hands into the front pockets of his jeans, then continues in the direction of the Colosseum, which leaves me with whiplash. I watch his back flex as he saunters away before calling over his shoulder, “I think it’s interesting you�
��ve already pegged my type when I’m not sure what it is anymore.”
What the hell is that supposed to mean?
I rush to catch up to him, cursing his long legs under my breath. Once I’m by his side, I reply, “What do you mean you don’t know your type? I’ve known you for what? A couple of months? And I’ve already pegged you. How can you not know?”
“I want gelato. You want some gelato?” he asks before lifting his chin toward a nearby stand.
I shake my head in an attempt to disperse my confusion. “What?”
“Gelato. I’m buying some for us. Do you have a flavor preference?”
“Uh….” Scanning the options, my mouth waters. “Maybe chocolate?”
“Uno pistachio and uno pomegranate, please.” Liam raises his forefinger into the air while I try to hide my laughter behind my hands when I register the word uno.
After he hands over a few euros and we get our cones, it finally bursts out of me.
“Uno?” I laugh even harder. “Did you really just say, ‘Uno?’ And I said I wanted chocolate, remember?”
“Those were the rules, weren’t they? Loser has to speak in Spanish for the entire trip. I’m just holding up my end of the bargain.” He hands me the cone with pale green gelato in it while I stare at it like it’s a side of overcooked vegetables instead of a mouthwatering dessert.
“Try it,” he urges.
“I didn’t order pistachio. I ordered chocolate.”
“And you didn’t come all the way to Italy to eat the same flavor you always order at home.” He gives me a pointed look that dares me to argue.
Hesitantly, I bring the ice cream to my mouth and take a bite.
“How is it?” he asks.
A big, fat part of me wants to lie, but there’s no way he can’t read my expression right now, or how freaking eager I am to devour this entire thing.
“Amazing,” I gush as my tongue darts out for another taste. “I never would’ve ordered this flavor.”
“Exactly. Which is also why I ordered it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Because you’re a bubblegum-with-a-side-of-chocolate type of girl. Am I right?”
I cock my head to the side, curious as to when he’s going to get to the point.
“Earlier, you said that you’d already pegged my type.” He spits out the word as though it’s a curse. “But maybe I’d been too distracted by the usual flavor I’d become accustomed to that I hadn’t even considered trying a new flavor, which is why I said I don’t know what my type is. But maybe the best flavor out there––the one that’s perfect for me,” he clarifies, “Maybe I haven’t sampled it yet. Just like you and pistachio.”
“So, you’re encouraging me to try new flavors?”
“Maybe I’m encouraging both of us to try new flavors. Maybe we won’t like them as much as our usual…. Or maybe they’ll tickle our taste buds more than we could ever imagine. We won’t know until we try.”
“Hmmm….” I don’t bother to argue because he makes a good point. Still, there’s something in his eyes. I don’t know what it is, and I definitely can’t put my finger on it, but I get the distinct feeling we aren’t talking about gelato flavors anymore. And we sure as heck aren’t talking about our previous sexual conquests, either. I think we’re talking about fake husbands and fake wives––the non-hypothetical kind. The only problem is that that fake husband and fake wife have a very real agreement with a very real expiration date, which makes his little gelato experiment a moot point.
Unsure what to say, I simply lick my cone, and he has the decency to drop the subject.
His eyes are glued to my mouth as he asks, “So, you like it?”
I nod.
“More than you expected?”
Another nod, though I give it grudgingly.
Tossing his cone into a nearby bin, he breaks our eye contact and gives me a split second to breathe before giving me a panty-melting smile. “Then can I have some? ‘Cause pomegranate was shit.”
With a laugh, I offer him a taste, and he nearly groans as soon as his tongue touches the pale green treat. “Damn, Skye. You weren’t kidding. This is amazing.”
“I know, huh? So so good!”
We continue chatting, dropping the giant elephant in the room that so doesn’t need to be discussed, and settle on random topics about anything and everything. Ten minutes later, we find our tour guide and are ushered into the infamous Colosseum.
My eyes are the size of saucers as I take in the worn brick and aged stone surrounding me. It’s absolutely stunning.
“Who here has seen the movie Gladiator?” the tour guide, Elena, asks. With a secret smirk at Liam, I raise my hand, and he quickly follows suit, along with the majority of the group.
Elena nods in response. “Unfortunately, while the movie has a very moving story, it is not entirely accurate. For example, everyone can kiss Russell Crowe goodbye. Everyone, say, ‘Goodbye, Russell Crowe.’” She waves her hand for good measure while the group repeats, “Goodbye, Russell Crowe.”
Satisfied, she continues. “Unfortunately, the gladiators were not tall and muscular. They were short and were often fed an assortment of grains in order to give them big bellies. You see, this was a tactic to protect their organs. Ladies, I want you all to replace Mr. Crowe in all your gladiator fantasies with someone similar to Danny DeVito.”
Liam snorts beside me, unable to hide his amusement, which only amplifies mine, pulling me into a fit of giggles. Elena gives us both a small smile before she adds, “I know, it is quite disappointing, isn’t it, ladies? But you see, that did not matter to the women during that time. Many gladiators were still seen as celebrities. They were brave. They were smart. And even though they were considered slaves, the women still wanted them and would pay a great deal of money to see them in private.” Her mischievous smirk fills in any questions I might’ve had about what they might have done in private, but the only person I can picture is Danny DeVito, making my cheeks redden even more at the prospect.
Liam’s husky voice brushes against the shell of my ear. “Tell me, Skye. How much would you pay to have one-on-one time with a gladiator now that you know the more historically accurate version of one?”
Peeking over my shoulder, I murmur, “I wouldn’t have to pay a thing.”
“And why’s that?” His breath fans across my face, but I ignore the butterflies that accompany it.
“Because I’d be the one helping them escape from their slavery so they could continue to help young children in third world countries,” I quip with a syrupy sweet smile.
Surprised, he pulls back an inch. “You calling me Danny DeVito?”
“Maybe.”
“I’m not sure if I should be offended or flattered.”
“Flattered, obviously.”
“And why’s that?”
“Because your own personal superhero found you worthy of her time and came to your rescue,” I state as though the answer is obvious.
“So, now, you’re a superhero?”
“I saved you, didn’t I?”
My sarcasm misses its mark when I see Liam’s once-amused expression vanish, being replaced by cold indifference. And maybe a little fear too. The combination leaves me unsettled, though I can’t quite put my finger on why.
I open my mouth to say…something when a voice interrupts us. “Now, if you’ll please follow me.” Our tour guide continues pointing out random, interesting facts for the rest of the afternoon. The time passes by so quickly that I’m almost able to forget the look in Liam’s eyes when I joked about saving him.
Almost.
Chapter Nineteen
Liam
Sharing a bed is a terrible idea. I didn’t think it was that big of a deal until after our tour at the Coliseum. I don’t know what changed between us, and I don’t know if it’s all in my head, either. Regardless, I figured it would be best if I slept on the couch. Then I saw the look in her eyes when I mentioned it.
The girl was hurt. I don’t know why it mattered where I offered to sleep. Hell, I was trying to be a gentleman, but it mattered to her. I could see it plain as day. I also can’t figure out why I care whether she’s hurting or not. Seeing a girl emotional and shit has never gotten to me before, but ever since that day in the church, I’ve started caring about Skye whether I want to or not.
However, I gotta draw the line somewhere because she’s currently nuzzling against my chest with her bare thigh thrown over my waist. I’ve been lying on my back for the past hour, staring up at the ceiling while picturing every non-sexual thing I can think of.
Puppies? Yup. Thought of it. Grandma in a swimsuit? Yup. I pictured that one too. The only problem is that the puppies made me imagine what Skye would look like while holding one. Her pearly white smile would be on full display, and her eyes would be bright as hell too. And the grandma trick? Well, she didn’t last three seconds before morphing into my fake wife as soon as her warm breath fanned across my neck. And Skye in a deep red string bikini? Kill me now. It’s a good thing I had the insight to pack a few T-shirts to sleep in because if this girl was pressed against my bare skin, I’d be done for.
Hell, I’m done for right now.
It’s been four nights of sleeping side by side. At first, it wasn’t really an issue. I’d wake up with a foot touching my calf or a few hairs tickling my nose. But the longer we have to share the same space, the more she creeps under my skin. Figuratively, of course. The literal part is even more complicated. Clenching my jaw, I shift a little lower to keep her thigh from grazing my crotch. She lets out a soft moan in response before rolling her hips into me to get more comfortable.
Or maybe she needs the relief just as badly as I do.
Unable to take the pain any longer, I roll onto my side, giving her my back before sitting up and walking to the shower.
Once I have a little privacy, I pull up the Airbnb app and check the other apartments I’d booked for the remainder of the trip.
Shit.
Looks like the torture is going to continue because I was a dumb ass and didn’t book a single room that has more than one bed.