by Anne Marsh
But it wouldn’t be this one.
This is the first time I’ve been invited to join a board for something other than my money, and I really love the direction our research has been headed. It’s weirdly addictive, putting my MIT degree to work, and while I honestly don’t expect to be driving a Bugatti on the surface of Mars in the next decade, it’s a great dream. I don’t want to lose it because a bunch of smart people, consisting mostly of engineers and nerds, have decided my dick is in charge of my brain. I’ve poured my money and my heart into this space rover thing, and it means something to me, so I won’t let them kick me out without a fight. Which was when I’d opened my mouth and overshared accidentally on purpose.
When I’d casually mentioned that I might, possibly, have been there that night with my new wife and that there would be no more public orgies because naturally she frowned on that kind of thing, being a nice girl and a huge fan of monogamy, they’d stopped yelling and started asking questions. Unfortunately, those questions included What’s her name? and Why was she at a sex party—are you swingers? I’d put them off, but eventually I’d have to provide answers.
As it stands now, I’ve been strongly requested to bring my new wife to a charity gala next month hosted by one of the board members. I don’t particularly want to be married, but it will smooth over ruffled feathers and it has been made clear that as long as I’m married to someone who can serve as my public face, all will be forgiven.
So I’ll just convince Hana to stay fake-married to me for a few months. I’ll trot her out in front of the board, bring her to a few charity gigs, and then we can quietly split up just as soon as people have forgotten about the whole Leda thing. I’ll make it easy—she won’t have to do much besides move into my place and go to the charity gala. Smile, take a few photos, let me buy her dinner and a bee farm. Maybe some really nice earrings. I’ve already determined through some judicious texting with her brother that she isn’t currently seeing anyone, and a quick hack into her checking account revealed that bee farming is even less lucrative than I would’ve guessed. So her cash flow issue plus my image issue adds up to us staying married for now. She used to have a huge crush on me, so maybe she won’t even mind.
I like the thought of that.
Giving up on work for the day, I head out of the office, making a quick stop at the reception desk to let them know that I’ll be unavailable unless it’s an emergency.
I try texting Hana again from the elevator. Her voice mail is full and she doesn’t pick up. It’s possible she’s genuinely busy. She sells her honey at three different farmers’ markets, so she should be in Marin right now. I’ll pay her a visit and lay our options on the table.
So far, no specific public revelations about our marriage have come to light. There’s just been the usual content on the celebrity gossip sites with pictures of guests arriving and leaving. The costumes definitely got coverage, plus half the world seems to be wondering if circus is the new kink. The big top and the Ferris wheel were visible from outside my compound and the paparazzi shot what they could. Sooner or later, however, they’ll find out about Hana, especially if I start introducing her as my wife. After the Leda debacle, they’ll dig into her background, expecting to find something salacious.
And they’ll find bees.
Hana is fucking perfect.
CHAPTER SIX
AND WE’RE GO FOR LAUNCH
Liam
BUILT FOR SPEED, my limited edition Bugatti Veyron eats up the highway. Driving anything less than sixty would be criminal, and I’m in the mood to go fast. I shoot out of the city and then floor it as soon as I’ve cleared the Golden Gate Bridge with its obstacles of slow cars and gawking tourists.
The Veyron rides smooth, its wheels hugging the road, the seductive purr of the motor filling the white leather interior. Jax calls it the international playboy accessory, but he’s just jealous because it’s way harder to have sex on the back of his stupid motorcycle. I feel like a European prince in this car, life is good, and I have a plan with a limited window to execute so I let the ocean and palm trees whip past my window until I hit Marin County’s infamously bad traffic.
At least there’s plenty to look at as I slow to a forced crawl. Marin is gorgeous, all ocean and wetlands, stunning views and stupidly expensive scraps of houses tucked into epic-sized redwood trees and palm tree groves where people making stupid amounts of money in San Francisco live alongside longtime families. Owning real estate here is a golden ticket. Houses sell the day they come on the market. Less advantageously, all those new homeowners bring their cars—and all of them seem to have decided that today would be a great day to buy a truckload of organic tomatoes and eggplants at the farmers’ market.
I follow a sea of cars, bikes and walkers to a parking lot that’s really a dusty field of ruts and weeds. Leaving my Veyron surrounded by destructive particles of nature sucks, but I need to find Hana and request her buy-in on our temporary but public future. As soon as I get out, however, I realize I’ve underestimated the chaos factor.
The Friday farmers’ market is a disorderly sea of pop-up awnings. I scan the aisles, but come up empty. There are endless piles of local produce, fresh-grown strawberries, jams, soaps and more leafy stuff than I can possibly identify. A service delivers my produce in a box so all this choice is an unwelcome novelty. Maybe the crunchy granola goodness will rub off and I’ll start a garden? Plant some seeds and do good-for-me shit? Or maybe not, because the dress code seems to be organic cotton, beads and reusable hemp shopping bags. My three-thousand-dollar business suit and tie stick out and not in a good way.
I wave off a half dozen vendors eager to load me up with produce. I don’t need organic zucchini or purple carrots—just a wife. Eventually, through a combination of blind luck and strategic direction-asking, I discover Hana’s stand on the far edge of the market. Her love of all things bee is obvious even from a distance. A black-and-yellow awning protects her tables covered in red-and-white-checked tablecloths and dozens of wooden crates of honey, mason jars filled with waxy combs, dark honey, light honey and flavored honey sticks. The world of honey products is far larger than I knew. I still don’t understand how she makes enough money to live, but her workplace smells sweeter than mine. There’s even a display case housing a live slab of bees that must be a serious liability. What if the glass broke? Or someone knocked it over and then the two thousand bees trapped inside rampaged through the farmers’ market?
Thanks to the bee analogies or possibly the constant thinking about sex, I feel unexpectedly light-headed. Hana’s seated behind one of the tables, waving her hands as she explains something to a middle-aged lady purchasing a half dozen jars of honey. No one needs that much honey but it’s hard to say no to Hana, as I’ve learned.
She’s hot in a cute, wholesome way that I attribute to the straw fedora half sliding off her head as she agrees vigorously with something the other lady says. Two strawberry-blond braids poke out beneath the brim and a cheerful smile tilts her pretty mouth. It might be funny or a really good story—or it could also be boring as fuck and something she’s heard twice already today. Hana has a way of focusing on you, though, as if she really can’t wait to hear what you say next.
Hana used to look at me like that.
I stride toward the stand, trusting that the milling, ambling, aimless crowd of shoppers will get out of my way.
She rockets to her feet as soon as she spots me, green dress belling out around her in a floral explosion. The hem stops above her knees, so I get an eyeful of toned, suntanned thighs. The rest of her is regrettably covered up by the long sleeves of her dress, which gather at her wrists in a big puff. The front dips low in a vee to reveal some kind of lacy thing that’s probably intended to hide her boobs. The lace just draws attention, however, to the freckles that dot her cleavage. I do my best not to stare because I really am here to talk with her, not play connect-the-dots with
my tongue.
I want to at least kiss her hello, but that seems likely to lead to a repeat of the sex scandals the board has been riding my ass about as I don’t seem to be able to keep my hands off her once I get started. Instead I stop on the public side of the honey-loaded table and consider my options for getting past the barrier. Crawling underneath would lack dignity and vaulting over feels like showing off and could end poorly for the glass jars.
I settle for bracing a hand on the edge and leaning toward her. “Hana.”
“Liam.” Laughter fills her gorgeous eyes.
Christ, she’s beautiful.
“Hi.” I’ve fantasized about our reunion a half dozen times, usually while in the shower. At this point, I’ve swung back and forth between reminding myself that she’s my best friend’s little sister and my hot weekend hookup so many times that I might have permanent whiplash.
Her gaze skims down my body, taking in my suit. “Did you make another billion dollars today? Commit any acts of big business?”
“Enough to buy you lunch. Can you take a break?”
I hold up the paper bag I’m carrying. After considering the best way to approach her, I decided on food-based bribery. Hana’s favorite place to eat in San Francisco is a raw food restaurant that serves only vegetables and plant-based products. They don’t cook anything on the menu and it’s so farm-to-table fresh that you can pick the dirt out of your teeth.
“Is that—” She reaches for the bag and I only hold it out of her reach for a second. I’m playing nice today.
“Rabbit food,” I agree. She already knows how I feel about meat substitutes. Our fingers brush as she takes the bag. She’s wearing an inexpensive mood ring where her wedding band should be, the stone a rich golden amber.
She ducks over to the next table and asks its occupants if one of them can temporarily babysit her honey. The sinewy, built guy who follows her is way too good-looking.
“Thirty minutes,” she tells me once she’s got him situated with a gunmetal cash box.
“Not long enough.”
“Take it or leave it.”
“Hana. Since when do I negotiate?” I lean down into her. She could back up, but she doesn’t and she looks so fucking beautiful that I kiss her for a sweet, quick beat. Her lips part beneath mine and suddenly I’m devouring her mouth, eating her up in a wet, obscene tangle of tongues and lips.
When I pull back, she looks dazed.
“Tell me where we’re eating lunch or I’ll choose.”
She mutters something, but points to a rusting truck that’s an antique without any of the investment value. Its paint job was left behind at some point in the 1950s and I’m amazed the California DMV ever approved it for road use.
I follow her, picking my way around the maze of tables and produce. I feel like the tail end of a parade, so I catch up, cupping her elbow with my hand. Not because she can get lost when her truck is sitting there in plain, ugly sight, but just because I like touching her. Her skin is soft and she smells mostly like coconut and vanilla, although there are notes of honey and tomatoes in there.
The truck is less private than I like—we’re definitely not having makeup sex without attracting an audience. She sets the bag in the truck bed and lets down the gate, revealing a disorganized jumble of stuff: wooden crates stamped with the farm’s name, a plaid blanket, random tools, driftwood and a flat of succulents.
She points to the lunch I brought her. “Are you bribing me?”
“Is it working?”
She hops up onto the gate—which puts her at eye level—and looks expectantly at me. “Not yet.”
Grinning, I lever myself into the truck bed beside her. Thanks to her weird collection of stuff, there’s not much room. Our knees touch, the fabric of her dress brushing my suit pants. The metal is sun-warmed but also streaked with yellow pollen. Hana never parks in the garage at her farm. She just leaves her truck outside wherever she stops driving. It makes Jax nuts because he’s a clean freak, and in this case, he has a point. There’s every chance our asses will be pollen-colored when we stand up.
She does a stretchy thing with her arms, bending them behind her head one at a time. “What do you want?”
I nudge the bag toward her. “To have lunch with you.”
And sex and a temporary marriage but...details. She’ll be more amenable after she’s eaten. I know how she gets when she has a hangry going and she can’t have had much time to eat today.
“God, you never change.” She digs into the bag with a sigh, pulling out a biodegradable paper-wrapped object, and eyes the words Sharpied onto the side. “Bean sprout taco?”
“Christ, no.”
“Your loss.” Her eyes twinkle at me as she relaxes, popping open a cooler hiding behind one of the crates and pulling out two cans of Coke. I love that she hasn’t changed. She’s always had a weakness for it. No diet, no other brand. Just Coke. I’ve added it to my weekly grocery order for both my San Francisco place and my Napa château.
I take a can from her, wrapping my fingers around her hand. I feel like an asshole—more so than usual—because instead of focusing on today’s plan or thinking about what Hana needs, I’m mostly aware of how easy it would be to ease her legs apart and slide under that tent of a dress. I’d lick a line from her knee to her clit and then I’d eat her out. Maybe later she’ll let me do it.
“Liam?”
Hana’s sweet voice cuts through my fantasy. It brings my attention back to the here and now, but does nothing to deflate my inconvenient hard-on. I try reminding myself that she’s off-limits, but my dick points out that we’re married, which introduces certain possibilities, the biggest of which is turning out to be hard to hide in dress pants.
“Are you ready to tell me why you’re here?”
Not a chance. “How was your week?”
It’s been six days, 144 hours, or roughly 8,640 minutes since she hightailed it away from me and our impromptu marriage. Not that I’ve been counting.
The look she gives me starts somewhere around my knees and lingers far too long on the front of my pants. Color stains her cheeks, but she launches into a lively description of how she’s spent our time apart. It involves wildflowers, bees, and a pressing need to determine whether or not her particular colony will accept lavender snacks or if they’re holding out for echinacea.
Beekeeping is not something I’ve given a lot of thought to, but Hana loves it and I like listening to her. Eventually, she falls silent, working through her second taco.
“Penny for your thoughts?” I stroke my finger down her nose. The gesture is an old habit but it somehow feels different. I pop open her Coke and set it down beside her. I can feel the warmth of her skin and I have an urge to push two fingers into her to see if she’s that warm and soft everywhere. I resist because I’m not a total pig. I know what’s wrong.
“What do you want? Right now? And don’t tell me you’re not here for something, Liam.”
She pulls her legs up, making a barrier between us of her body. Fuuuck. Me.
“Maybe I’m just having lunch with my wife.” She’s not thinking about the same things I am, I remind myself. I’m just her older brother’s friend and a drunken hookup that she proposed to for some reason that made perfect sense to her but that the rest of the world would see as crazy.
“As if. Are we still married?” She eyes me calmly over her “taco.”
“Yeah.” I lean back against my side of the truck, soaking in the sun-warmed metal. I can’t remember the last time I slowed down and just took a nap in the sun. I’m always busy launching a new company or shepherding a critical project to success, so the urge to close my eyes feels strange. I’m in the middle of a freaking farmers’ market with a thousand people walking past us.
“You didn’t end it?” Her cheeks have a new flush of color that wasn’t there before. I tug
her cute little hat lower, angling the brim for better coverage.
Just because sunburn’s a serious risk and she’s mine.
Temporarily.
“Not yet.” My eyes drift down her body, trying to see through the surprisingly opaque yards of floral material.
“Why not?” She scrunches up taco wrapper number two in her hand.
“That’s exactly what I wanted to talk to you about.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
NOT SO SMOOTH NOW
Liam
“WE SHOULD GET MARRIED. Stay married.” Real smooth, Masterson. I cringe at the way I just blurt the words out. I hadn’t rehearsed in the car because I’d wanted to sound natural, but this is too much of a good thing.
“They have family law courts for this kind of thing,” she says. There’s an impish look in her eyes that doesn’t bode well for my dignity—or my self-control. If I don’t take charge, our discussion will derail or take a detour. Detours with Hana are turning out to be super fucking fun, but I also don’t want to sit through another board meeting like the one earlier today.
Ergo, I suck in a deep, calming breath and try not to think about kissing her.
Or touching her.
I remind myself that I don’t believe in problems—only challenges. The situation with my board is Titanic-sized, but this is also the moment when I storm the wheelhouse and turn that ship the fuck around.