Playing Pretend by Cassie-Ann L. Miller
Twenty-Eight
Eliza
I should have stayedin bed in my basement apartment instead of coming into work today, but it’s hard to call in sick to your husband. Especially when he’s the brute who forced you to come in at 7:30 on a Monday morning in the first place.
I’m in a crappy mood and I’m blaming it all on Liam Kline.
Good god. I can’t believe I’m back at Kline-Simmons in my old administrative assistant job. And I’m married to my boss.
The reminder bubbles up inside me until I feel like I’m going to explode.
I try to keep the big picture in mind, but that’s hard to do when—one; I am now married to my boss, and two; HR demanded I update my paperwork on file.
The first one, I can deal with. Or at least, I can ignore it. He’s an ass either way, so it’s not anything new.
But the second required some tactical-level evasiveness to come up with a good excuse as to why I don’t have a valid bank account in my name.
The entire human resources department now thinks I’m looney after I spouted out random data that supported my on-the-fly fictional theory that banks are a mistrustful devil-headed demon.
The look on the HR assistant’s face was priceless, almost making up for the side-eyes I’m going to get throughout the rest of my employment at the firm.
Whatever. I’m used to it by now.
At least I was able to give them my home address this time. My humble abode. The only apartment in town I qualified for without a background check.
Sighing, I weave my way between the quiet cubicles and head to the break room. More caffeine is probably a bad idea for a jittery mess like me, but screw it. A steamy cup of coffee makes me happy, and dammit, I deserve a teensy moment of goodness today.
I push open the door, but before I even step inside the space, I spot my new husband-boss at the cappuccino machine.
His back is turned to me, and he hasn’t noticed me yet. The view of Liam Kline from behind. Mmm. It’s a good angle on him. My brain evokes memories of everything he has to offer under those tailored slacks and that form-fitting collared shirt. It’s hard not to picture the man naked.
I hate that.
And I’m certainly not prepared to be alone in the same room with him.
Holding my breath, I take a quiet step backward and start to pull the door closed. But it groans loudly. Before I can make my stealthy getaway, Liam glances back.
His dark gaze pins me to the floor. His expression lands somewhere between boredom and hatred, before he returns his attention to the coffee machine.
“Don’t you have work to do? With all the money I’m paying you, I’m sure you could find a way to make yourself useful.”
Grumpy asshole.
Reminding myself that we’re in a professional environment, I bite my tongue at the retorts that are begging to leave my mouth. Instead of ripping him a new one, I decide to play it cool.
“Yes I do,” I quip, all confident and level-toned. “And I’d be able to get back to it a lot sooner if you weren’t hogging the coffee machine with those big, wide, stupid shoulders of yours.”
Wait—Liam is making his own coffee? The man never brews his own. Morning, midday, and afternoon, he has me running up and down these halls for his caffeine refills. But if he’s attempting to make the coffee on his own, it’s abundantly clear that he’s avoiding me.
For some reason, that stings.
He doesn’t bother respond to my sass. He flicks me another bored glance. Like I’m not worth his time.
The man keeps on stabbing around at the buttons like the machine has personally wronged him. But nothing is working. The coffeemaker just puffs, sputters, and hisses back at him.
That a girl. I silently wish I could give the kitchen equipment a high-five.
I glide over to the fridge and grab the one percent before nudging my Robo-Boss out of the way.
“It’s out of milk,” I point out since it’s not so obvious to a hotshot like Liam.
I refill the milk in the right compartment, reset the machine, and brew his coffee just the way he likes it. When I turn with his steaming mug in hand, I find him staring at me. For the briefest moment, his perma-scowl is missing. My tummy clenches at how beautiful his face is when he’s not frowning. And why does that look like lust brewing in his eyes?
But before I can speak, his mask of apathy has slipped back over his face.
Shaking my head, I hand the ungrateful jerk his coffee.
He grumbles out something that kind of, sort of sounds like a thank you. I guess that’s all I’m going to get.
It doesn’t feel fair. I’m not the only one to blame for this mess we find ourselves in. “You sulking and being pissed at me isn’t going to fix your problems.”
His lips twitch with restraint. “An annulment is what’s going to fix my problems.”
Ouch! This marriage of convenience is inconvenient for the both of us. But the least he could do is be polite about how eager he is to get rid of me.
I think my hurt plays out on my face because after a moment of glaring, his expression softens. “You know what? I shouldn’t have said that. None of this is your fault.”
He sets down his cup and drags a hand down his face. Doesn’t look like he’s been getting much sleep lately. Same here.
“This situation is such bullshit,” he says under his breath.
“Look—we’re stuck with each other at least until the deal is done,” I say. I stretch a hand out to him. “So let’s just be cordial to each other, get our work done and stay out of each other’s way as much as possible, all right?”
Liam is reluctant. He gives me a challenging stare. At last, he takes my hand. “Fine.”
We shake hands and I try not to focus on the quiet voice telling me that a simple business handshake shouldn’t be this electric.
It’s a fragile truce between us. But maybe, just maybe, it will carry us through closing the Varner deal.