Hoax Husband: A Hero Club Novel

by Candice Wright

  She looks up at me and nods, offering me a shaky smile.

  The doors slide open behind us, so I reach my hand for her and wait. She stares at it for a moment before looking up into my eyes once more, her gaze searching for something. Whatever it is, she must find it as she reaches out tentatively and slides her much smaller hand into mine. I draw her out of the elevator and walk us down the corridor until we get to my door and key us in.

  “I’ll get you a keycard tomorrow from Sam. Nobody gets up here unless they are on the list downstairs, so you don't have to worry about any unexpected visitors,” I explain, swinging the door open.

  She walks through the small hall that leads to the enormous open plan living room with sunken floors and floor to ceiling windows.

  “The penthouse? Why am I not surprised?” she says with a smirk as she takes in the view.

  “It's the best. Here, let me give you a quick tour.” I retake her hand, liking the feel of her small one in mine as I pull her toward the kitchen area.

  She takes in the high-top counters in glossy black with gray cabinets and sleek modern appliances that make up most of the kitchen, the neutral colors blending with the lighter grays and creams of the living room space. A large island, with chrome legged, black and gray checkered stools tucked beneath it, separates the kitchen area from the living room.

  “Do you cook?” I ask curiously.

  “I do okay. You?” she replies, trailing her finger over the glossy counter.

  “I get by,” I answer gruffly, imagining that finger trailing over something else.

  Pulling her with me, I take her through the living room to the hallway that leads to the other rooms.

  “This is my workspace,” I tell her, swinging a door open to reveal a pretty standard office. A large dark mahogany desk takes up most of the space with two oxblood leather chairs facing it. The rest of the room is lined with bookcases filled with books, ranging from architecture to facts about primitive tribes and racing cars through the ages.

  Closing the door behind me when she’s looked her fill, I open the one on the opposite side of the hall.

  “Games room. It doesn’t get used as much as it used to, but if the guys and I ever do manage to sync up our calendars, it's here that you’ll usually find us.”

  She steps inside and looks around, running her fingers over the back of the big soft brown leather sectional. There is a 50-inch television on the wall opposite it and to the left of that a full-size pool table. On the right are a few old-school arcade games and in the corner is a fully stocked wet bar.

  “Well, this room screams bachelor pad,” she teases, walking over to the games.

  “Well, now that I’m a married man, I guess we will have to call it the man cave.”

  “Oh, you have Pac-Man,” she says excitedly, making me laugh this time.

  “You play?”

  “When I was a kid. I used to sneak out to this arcade place with my friend. I had the high score on Pac-Man for three years,” she brags.

  “Is that right? Well, I’ll look forward to checking out your talents.” I wink.

  She blushes and looks away, clearly not missing the double meaning.

  “Come on.”

  She follows behind me as I take her into the spare room. This room, like the sitting room and my bedroom next door, has the floor to ceiling windows bathing the cream walls in natural light and warmth.

  Initially, I was going to let her have this as her bedroom. After seeing her paintings, I have another use for it and it's the perfect way to get her in my bed again.

  “Oh. Wow,” she gasps, and I know she sees the room from an artist's point of view.

  “I thought you could set up your easel over here.” I indicate the space by the windows. “There is plenty of space for cabinets and stuff for whatever art supplies you might need.”

  She looks up at me with excitement on her face. “Really?”

  I laugh at her exuberance. “Yes, really. It's all yours. Do what you want with it.”

  “Holy crap,” she whispers.

  “Come on.” When she doesn’t move, I tug her out the door with another laugh, ignoring her sigh of annoyance.

  “And this is our room.” I emphasize the word our, watching with amusement when she freezes in the doorway with a panicked look on her face.

  Twelve

  Linda

  “Our?” I squeak out. “I mean, I could put a bed in the other room with my art stuff—” I start, but he cuts me off with a shake of his head.

  “No. You promised me a real marriage for the next three months. You're not backing out already, are you?”

  Is he teasing me or testing me? I take a deep breath, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing me so flustered.

  “No, it's fine,” I manage to say as there is a loud knock on the door.

  “I’ll go. It will be your things from the car.” He turns and leaves me to take it all in.

  The windows make the room light and airy, and in keeping with that, he’s painted the walls white and gone for soft, dove gray bed linens. In fact, the only elements of darkness in here are from the deep cherry wood furniture. A huge television is mounted on the wall at the foot of the bed and bedside tables flank the large wooden headboard. These match the dresser that bumps up against the walk-in closet, each one topped with a brass reading lamp.

  The dark wood floor is covered with a large white fluffy rug that I’m sure will feel divine under my feet when I strip off these boots and socks later.

  The bed itself sits perpendicular to the windows and is possibly the biggest bed I’ve ever seen. I could roll over three times before I met Asher in the middle and that gives me a small measure of comfort.

  It seems ridiculous to be so nervous about sharing a bed with him when we’ve already slept together, but then I remember how forgettable the whole experience was for him, reminding myself I have the right to be nervous. There is something about Asher Sloan that unnerves me. Something that smashes through my defenses time and time again. My biggest fear is knowing that by the time three months have passed, I’ll likely be head over heels in love with the man only to find he might realize marriage isn’t for him and leave.

  Being discarded so easily after our night together in Vegas hurt, but I know it will be nothing compared to him leaving me when our three months are over. But how do I give this marriage my all and guard my heart in the process?

  “Here we go.”

  I turn at the sound of Asher’s voice and take the tote bag he’s holding out for me.

  “I’ll arrange to have all the rest of your stuff packed up and brought over tomorrow. Is there anything you don’t want to keep?”

  “The apartment was already furnished when I rented it, so none of it’s mine. I only need my personal stuff and my artwork. I’ve already paid the rent for the next three months, so I don’t think the landlord will mind me breaking the lease early if I tell him to keep it all.”

  “I can give you the money back for the rent, being as it was me who pushed you into moving here,” he offers, but I shake my head.

  “No, it's fine.” I look around, feeling awkward once more.

  “Here, I’ve cleared out one side of the closet and the dresser, but if you need more space, let me know.” He shows me inside the enormous walk-in closet.

  I can’t help but laugh. “I think this will be fine, thanks.”

  “Okay, well, the offer still stands. Why don’t you put your things away and I’ll make us something to eat? The bathroom is just through there if you need it.” He indicates a door I hadn’t noticed from the angle in which I’m standing.

  I nod and start unpacking, ignoring my shaking hands, and give myself a mental pep talk.

  I don't like feeling this unsure of myself, which is one of the reasons I was so apprehensive about doing this in the first place. But I agreed to this foolhardy plan so it's time to suck it up and make the best of it. Worst-case scenario, I end up with a bruise
d heart and a nice new apartment in a safer zip code. Best-case scenario, though… Well, that's what perhaps makes me the most nervous of all.

  Because best case means my leap of faith was worth it, and I get to keep the man I spent a year trying to pretend meant nothing to me.

  An hour or so later, after I’ve procrastinated as much as I can, I head into the living area to the enticing scents of garlic and tomatoes. Asher is standing at the stove with his back to me when I enter, so I take a moment to appreciate just how well he fills out those pants.

  “Something smells good,” I call out, inhaling deeply and humming my approval as I claim a seat at the counter.

  He glances over his shoulder and offers me a sexy grin. “Perfect timing. You want a glass of wine?” he asks as he serves up spaghetti into large pasta bowls.

  “Erm…okay, sure.” I don’t normally drink at lunchtime, but I could do with something to take the edge off.

  I sit quietly, watching him move around the kitchen with confidence as he places a bowl in front of me, followed by some silverware and a glass of red wine.

  “Thank you. I can’t remember the last time someone cooked for me,” I admit, twisting up a forkful.

  “Well, don’t get too excited. I have about five dishes that I’m pretty good at making and everything else is hit and miss. Plus, I work odd hours, so nine times out of ten, I order something in.”

  “It’s the same for me. Takeout is just so much easier, and I’m the first to admit there is no fun in cooking for one.”

  “Well, now, you have me,” he points out, his eyes on mine, making my skin tingle with awareness.

  Sliding a forkful of food into my mouth, I moan in appreciation when the flavors explode on my tongue. “Damn, this is good.” I hadn’t realized how hungry I was before with all the butterflies in my stomach.

  His eyes heat at my moan, staring hungrily at my lips as I suck up the spaghetti, making my skin feel warm.

  “Do you have work tonight?” he asks, and I don't miss the way his body tenses as he waits for my answer.

  “No, I’m off for the next two nights,” I tell him warily.

  “How much of your wine would end up over my head if I broached the subject of you giving up the bartender gig?”

  “I wouldn't waste perfectly good wine. Especially when you already know what my answer will be.”

  He sighs and places his fork on his plate before resting his elbows on the table and lacing his fingers together.

  “Would you be able to take a sabbatical? Just for three months. When you decide to stay, we can revisit this. I don’t want to try and take over. I just have a deal on the line at work, and they are very, very traditional in their way of thinking.”

  “Okay, first of all, nobody takes a sabbatical from being a bartender,” I roll of my eyes. “I’m either employed or not, that's about as close to a sabbatical as it gets. Secondly, I never said I was staying, so stop putting the cart before the horse.”

  “You’ll stay. I’ll win you over, I have no doubt,” he measures me confidently as if there is simply no other option for him.

  His confidence should piss me off, and maybe it does a little, but I’d be lying to myself if I didn't admit that it also makes me feel hot in all the right places.

  “I don’t want to leave my job.” I twist the napkin in my lap, worried about losing myself in him and this agreement, which might only be temporary.

  His face falls but he doesn’t push it. I think about what he said, though. He’s not asking me to quit just to put a pin in it. Whatever deal he has in the pipeline is bound to be worth substantially more than whatever money I will lose by not slinging drinks for three months. He’s given me a space to do my art, moved me into a penthouse apartment, and offered to get me a studio if this doesn’t work out. How can I really say no when he’s asking for so little?

  “I’ll ask my boss if I can take some time off,” I say quietly.

  “Really?” his eyebrows shoot up.

  “Yeah, let me see what he says. If this doesn’t work out, I still need to be able to pay my bills. I can’t really afford to quit and risk being out of work for however long it takes me to find something else.

  “I’ll pay alimony,” he offers immediately.

  “No, that's not what I’m after. I didn’t marry you for your wallet, and while we’re on the subject, I’m never going to be okay with spending your hard-earned money without contributing something.”

  “Are you always this stubborn?” he questions with a shake of his head.

  “Why yes, yes, I am,” I answer with a smile of my own.

  He may as well know what he’s getting himself into.

  Thirteen

  Asher

  As Linda cleaned up the mess I made while cooking, I arranged for a service to pack up the rest of her things and have them brought here.

  Now I need to head into the office for a few hours and I find myself strangely reluctant to do so.

  “Hey, Linda, I need to go to the office for a while. Are you going to be okay here by yourself?”

  She turns to look at me with a frown on her face. “Will I be okay playing Rapunzel up in your penthouse tower for a few hours? Hmm…I’m not sure. I might break a nail or something.”

  “All right, smartass, I was just asking.”

  “Go, do your thing. I promise not to burn the place down while you're gone.”

  I have the insane urge to pull her into my arms and kiss the fuck out of her, but it’s too soon. After somehow managing to convince her to stay, I don't want her to run the first chance she gets.

  “Fair enough. I won't be gone long.” I hover for a moment before she shoos me away.

  I head to the office on autopilot, barely grunting hello to any of my staff as I make my way up to my floor.

  “I didn’t think you were coming in today, sir.” Rosa greets me as I pass her desk outside my door.

  “I wasn’t planning on it, but something came up, and you know I get restless without touching base. Do me a favor, will you? Hold all calls for me. I’m not going to be here long and don't want to be disturbed unless it's an emergency.

  “No problem, Mr. Sloan. Oh, there are messages from Mr. Morgan and Mr. Baxter for you to return their calls.”

  “Thanks, Rosa. How’s that grandbaby of yours?” I ask conversationally as I open the door to my office.

  “A gorgeous little terror, much like her mother was at the same age.” She chuckles.

  “I’ll bet,” I say with a smile of my own before closing myself inside and heading straight to my phone.

  I call my lawyer first and arrange for him to come by the penthouse tomorrow with a basic contract between Linda and me. Next, I call Graham. His phone barely rings before he picks up.

  “Tell me how it went,” he orders as I sit in my chair and gaze out at the clear blue sky.

  “Better than I had anticipated. Linda is, as we speak, making herself at home in my penthouse, where she has agreed to stay for the next three months,” I say with a smug smile.

  He’s silent for a moment. In fact, he’s quiet for so long, I pull the phone from my ear to check that the call didn't drop.

  “Are you sure about this? You don’t know anything about her, and it's clear from what you’ve said about her financial situation that you have far more to lose in this scenario than she does,” he points out.

  But then I haven't exactly been forthcoming with my wife, now, have I?

  “I’m having Baxter draw up a contract as we speak. Honestly, I don’t think I have to worry about her bleeding me dry. I had to push her into this. She is not my biggest fan,” I tell him with a self-deprecating laugh, although I haven’t missed the way she watches me when she thinks I’m not looking.

  “Hmm...just be careful, okay? But I guess this means we can put in our formal application now, at least with Peterson.”

  “It does indeed. Send it over, and let's see what happens,” I answer, the excitement evident i
n my voice.

  “There are a couple of charity galas coming up. The first one is next week, to raise money for the local hospital. It might be worth getting seen out and about with your new bride,” he says wryly.

  “I’ll talk to her. I don’t want to throw too much at her too soon because if I fuck this up now and she walks away, I’m screwed.”

  “Maybe start with dinner somewhere you know you’ll get seen then. It's a little less in your face.”

  “That's not a bad idea. I’m pretty sure, at the very least, I owe her a date,” I muse, pondering where to take her.

  He sighs like I’m a lost cause. “If you pull this off, Asher, I’ll give you twenty grand out of my own pocket.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence, asshole.”

  “And you owe her more than one date,” he adds with a laugh.

  If I get my way, I’ll give her a lifetime of dates.

  Fourteen

  Linda

  As soon as he left, I snooped. I couldn’t help it. I’m going to be living with this guy, and yet I don’t know him at all. I let him inside my body once and it backfired spectacularly. I need to know what kind of man he is before I let him inside my heart.

  Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on how you look at it, I don't find anything interesting beyond an extensive collection of comic books and superhero movies. Certainly not anything that sets off any warning bells. No porn stash, which, to be fair, is likely on his laptop anyway. No hidden sex dungeon and no apparent shrines worshiping Justin Bieber. I don't know if I’m relieved not to find anything juicy or disappointed.

  It doesn’t take long for the boredom to set in, especially as I’m not one to usually sit around and do nothing. Normally, I would head off to paint, but my supplies aren’t here yet, leaving me with itchy fingers. Fuck it, I could just go and fetch them or I’ll drive myself crazy.

  Decision made. I head out, hoping the guy at the front desk will let me back upstairs when I return. He’s trying to calm an angry woman when I make it to the foyer, so I decide to leave instead of adding to his problems. I won’t be long, and if for some reason he can’t let me back up, I can just wait downstairs for Asher to come home.