Playing Pretend by Cassie-Ann L. Miller

Thirty-One

Eliza

I flip another page,groaning as a drop of broth splatters onto the crisp paper of the library book.

Crap. As if I needed another reason for someone to come after me.

I set my bowl of lukewarm soup down on the floor and use my tank top to mop up the liquid on my loaned ‘how to boost productivity’ book. Half a sentence is hidden behind the smear of red broth, and I haven’t even gotten to that page yet.

That’s just my luck these days.

I leave my soup on the floor, debating whether to invite my reading material to a bubble bath while I call to check in with my sister.

The soup mocks me with its heavy sodium scent and oh-so-crappy canned flavor. It doesn't even have any real meat in it. I knew I should have splurged and purchased the name brand can. But a girl can’t have everything, right?

I guess the tradeoff is being able to pay my water bill after I take this long, hot bubble bath.

You’re not broke anymore, Eliza, a voice whispers in my head.

As per our agreement, Liam paid me the first instalment owed to me on our wedding day but every penny of that money is already allocated. I can’t afford to live in luxury. Solving my family’s problems is the priority.

With a sigh, I shove my pen into my hair and climb off my sagging couch. When I head into the bathroom and start running my bath water, my phone begins ringing on the edge of the sink. It’s Dana’s number on my caller ID.

As usual, it’s like my little sister can read my thoughts from across the country. She always knows when I need to hear from her.

“Oh, hey.” I answer the phone, a smile on my lips when my sister’s face pops up on the screen.

Instantly, I hear the panic in her hushed voice. “Don’t you ‘oh, hey!’ me,” she scolds, her eyes wide. “I got the envelope you mailed me. It was full of money, Eliza. Lots of money. What the hell?!”

I’m still trying to figure out how I’m going to get all the cash across the country to my family. It’s not like I can just bank transfer tens of thousands of dollars without raising red flags. So in the meanwhile, the best I could do was send Dana a letter by mail with a few hundred dollar bills stuffed inside.

“Please don’t tell me you robbed a casino,” Dana begs, her voice low. “We already have enough problems. We don’t need you going all Ocean’s Eleven on the other side of the country.”

I lower onto the cold tile floor beside the bathtub. “Oh I can do you one better.” I cringe. “I got paid to marry my boss.”

“You did what?!” Her screech is so loud, I almost drop my phone into the bathtub. Thankfully, I catch it in time.

I know I signed an NDA but I trust Dana with my life and I really need someone to talk to before I lose my mind. I explained to her why Liam and I tied the knot, and why we can’t untie it until Varner Resorts breaks ground here in Sin Valley. Mr. Varner believes my marriage to Liam is the real deal, and if we get a quickie annulment, the hotel project will fall apart and cost the company millions.

And ultimately, cost me my job, too.

“Well, that’s shit-tastic. But at least it’s only temporary,” my sister offers, her tension melting a little. “It’ll be over before you know it.” She coughs.

I groan and mumble into my phone. “He’s such an asshole, though. We can hardly be in the same room for a few minutes without arguing.” I draw my fingers back and forth through the strawberry-scented bubbles in the rising tub of water.

Dana’s lips pull into a wicked grin. “Mmm. Arguing? Sounds like foreplay to me.”

“Definitely not foreplay,” I snap out quickly, trying to shake off the memories of the things my so-called husband did to me on our wedding night.

Despite the fireworks Liam and I had in the bedroom, there will be no repeats for my fake husband and me. The old saying holds true. Don’t hump the hand that feeds you. It’s unsanitary.

“Did you at least get some dick?” Dana insists.

“Mama needs to wash your mouth out with soap again.”

“She already tried, but she’s getting slow from running around after Clementine all day.” My sister asks the question again. “So, did you?”

A blush rushes across my skin. “A little bit…” I wince.

“Oh my god!” She shrieks. “Was it amazing? The expression on your face says it was amazing!”

I grip the edge of the tub and sigh. “It was. Yes, the sex was good. But it doesn’t matter. The man is a jerk. How is he any different from the next arrogant billionaire with a pretty face and a big dick.”

My sister deadpans. “Well damn. How many arrogant big-dicked billionaires do you know, girl?”

“I’m serious,” I say, my tone going grave. “Please don’t lose respect for me. I’m not a dumbass. I swear.”

“You’re human. You crave connection. And I know you’ve been so lonely in that new town, especially with all your secrets.” My sister smiles. “You’ve been through a lot. Cut yourself some slack instead of feeling weak for wanting a little intimacy.”

Maybe she’s right. If I’m stuck being that grouchy man’s wife, it’s only fair that I get to enjoy the full benefits package.

Like those corded arms holding his body over me. Those strong, powerful thighs driving their magic. That wicked grin, moments before his lips claim mine.

But having Liam vulnerable with me is where my real weakness lies. It does something to me every time. On our wedding night, as he was standing on the sidewalk, actually looking remorseful for what he put me through, being in that space of vulnerability with him cracked my compassion wide open.

Still, I’ve got to make better decisions from here on out.

Sighing, I change the subject. I ask my sister for updates on the rest of the family. Hearing about Dad’s troubles makes me anxious. I’m the one who created this mess and all I want is to find a solution for him.

“Do you want to say ‘hi’ to Mom and Dad?” she asks, her voice somber. “They’re really worried about you.”

A shuddering sigh leaves me because I’d give anything to hear my parents’ voices, but I can’t. “They’d tell me to come home, Dana. And I just can’t do that.”

“Okay, then. Let me know whenever you change your mind.” My sister pauses and reads the stress lines on my face. As always, she tries to brighten my mood. “I’m thinking, in the grand scheme of things, being temporarily married to a gorgeous billionaire isn’t the worst thing in the world.”

“I know,” I mutter, staring at the yellow rings on my too-low ceiling.

“So, go get some more of that rich D.” There’s mischievous laughter in her voice.

“Oh my god,” I giggle. “You’re the absolute worst.”

“You know you love my advice.” She smirks.

“Your advice is shit.”

“But you love me.” She grins. “And I love you.”

“Love you, too.”

Dana and I say our goodbyes and I end the call.

I set my phone back on the edge of the sink and pick up my book again, diving back in where I left off.

Before long, there’s a loud knock at my basement apartment door. I quickly turn off the water. Before I can get up off the floor, there’s that impatient knock again.

I hustle out of the bathroom, pausing to frown at my reflection in the floor-length mirror leaned against the living room wall. I turn up my lip at my appearance. I wasn’t expecting anyone when I got home this evening, so my hair is piled on top of my head in a messy heap since that’s the only reasonable way to eat cheap, sloppy soup. Also, I’m wearing my old cotton shorts. They’re my most comfortable pair that maybe would have been considered black back in their prime, but now they’ve faded to a sad shade of gray.

Stunning.

I’m sure it’s Mr. Gordon again. He has a hard time opening jars and sometimes he comes down to ask for a hand getting his favorite pickles open.

I stroll over to my door, book in hand, still immersed in this paragraph about the psychology behind the personality types that tend to be the most productive in the workplace. It’s really quite riveting and explains a lot of the behavior I’ve already witnessed at the office.

Without thinking, I swing the door open, ready to put my strong Hercules-muscles to use on Mr. Gordon’s pickle jar. And then I can be on my merry way to sink into the bathtub with my reading material.

But the tall, dark, granite-eyed individual at my basement entrance is definitely not my landlord.

It’s my boss. My husband-boss.

Dear Jesus.

Liam stands there, gorgeously disheveled. He glares at me like I’ve wronged him somehow. I’d ask him what I did this time, but I’m starting to think my simple existence grates on his nerves.

My free hand falls to my hip as I frown back at the man who most certainly should not be on my doorstep. “What are you doing here?”

“Is that any way to greet your husband?” He clips back, inviting himself into my shitty apartment. That’s when I notice the takeout bags, one in each hand.

I slowly close the door and stand there, looking like a hobo in my threadbare clothes and lack of makeup. Hell, there’s even a soup stain on the bottom of my shirt, where I so delicately cleaned my book.

Husband or not, I like putting my best foot forward. And this right here clearly isn’t it…

I let my gaze follow him as he kicks off his loafers, marches through the tiny living room and drops the takeout bags on my faded kitchen countertop. Without asking a question, he begins rummaging through the cupboards and drawers.

“Please. Do make yourself at home,” I say wryly as he snoops around my kitchen, looking for god knows what.

In typical Liam-fashion, he doesn’t bother to respond to me.

It’s almost comical to watch him. Liam doesn’t belong here. He’s out of place. His socks alone probably cost more than all the furniture in here combined.

It takes him three hard shoves to shut my utensil drawer when it falls off its track. “Christ. Is everything falling apart here?”

Instead of answering, I give him a taste of his own medicine. Silence.

When he finally finds where I store my dinner plates, he practically flings the cheap fiber board cupboard door right off. Good lord. The rusted hinge cracks and the cabinet door dangles sadly.

“Metaphor for my fucking life,” I hear him mumble.

If I had my wits about me, I would have warned him to bring a softer touch to my kitchen, but I’m still taking it all in. I’ve never had a guest in here before.

Liam turns and sets two plastic plates on the counter. My face heats and my bones twitch uncomfortably beneath my skin as he scans me from head to toe. I hate that this arrogant human holds the power to have this effect on me. And why is he looking at me like he enjoys what he sees?

“Nice pen,” he remarks.

I blink. “What?”

He points to my head. “Your hairdo.”

With a roll of my eyes, I reach up and pull the Kline-Simmons ballpoint pen out of my messy bun. I don’t know how many of these suckers I have scattered around this apartment. Now that I think about it, I should probably return those to the office; otherwise, the next time he lawyers up, it’ll be to accuse me of theft.

Grinning to himself, he starts pulling disposable containers out of his takeout bags.

Time to cut to the chase. “What are you doing here?” I ask again, my voice evidencing my irritation.

His eyes flick to mine. “Well, darling wife, we have Varner showing up in a few days for dinner, and if we’re going to be a convincing married couple, we need to learn some basics about each other.” He hits me with a dazzling smile I didn’t know he was capable of. “And we need to—y’know—get to know each other.”