Playing Pretend by Cassie-Ann L. Miller

Thirty-Two

Liam

I’ll admit it—I’msort of surprised that Eliza didn’t kick me out.

I mean, I showed up here like a stalker tonight. But I have a suspicion that coming over with her favorite chicken wings helped.

I set the food out on the low coffee table in the cramped living room, while she figures out the wine situation. I gave up on finding wine glasses when I damn near broke her whole freaking kitchen. I make a mental note to have someone come out and at least fix the cabinet I demolished. That drawer, too.

“Very classy,” I tease when she hands me a coffee mug of wine and sets her own on the table.

Grinning, she joins me, dropping to the faded carpet next to me. “Just be grateful I made the effort to find you a cup. I usually drink my booze straight from the bottle.”

Sitting side by side with our backs against the couch, we dig in to the takeout containers.

There’s minimal chatter while we eat. All I do is stare while she gobbles up everything on her plate. It’s refreshing to see a woman eat to her heart’s content, it tightens something in my chest to see her put food away like she’s damn near starving. I glance across the room at the leftover soup I picked up off the floor and set on the kitchen counter earlier. I handed her over one hundred thousand dollars on our wedding day, yet she’s living in this shitty apartment and eating no-name canned goods for dinner? Something isn’t adding up.

When Eliza’s done eating, she tries to steer the discussion to the goings-on at the office. But for once, I don’t want to talk about work. I’m exceedingly curious to finally know who this mysterious woman in front of me is.

But judging off of her skittish behavior, I can tell that I have to approach the topic with finesse. I start somewhere safe.

“Productivity, huh?” I nod to the hefty book that’s resting on the couch cushion behind us.

She glances at it and her eyes light up. “It’s actually a pretty interesting read. You should give it a try. You know, when you’re between meetings and contracts and client travel,” she beams.

A rueful smile curls one corner of my mouth. “I kind of miss having the time to read something other than a meeting agenda or a legal document.”

“I’ll keep that in mind the next time I type up an agenda. Should I throw in an inspirational quote or two to spice things up?”

I chuckle. “Why the hell not? That sounds entertaining.” When I pick the book up, a sheet of paper flutters from between the pages and falls to the scratched wooden floor.

The caricature of Eliza and me…

“Oh, I…uh…” Her cheeks are the color of a fire engine as she snatches it from me.

My chest does this weird constricting thing as I watch her fold the paper and slip it beneath another stack of books piled on the floor.

I get a flashback of the two of us wandering down the Strip that night when the street artist had stopped us to draw our portrait. “That was a good night…” I hear myself saying as a genuine smile moves across my face.

Our eyes hold. She smiles shyly and nods. “It was…”

I’m grateful that she leaves it at that instead of revisiting the fact that I made one of the hugest mistakes of my business—or personal—life that night, ruthlessly firing her just because I was afraid of the things she makes me feel.

Tonight, I don’t fight my feelings. I just…feel them.

I feel the way my heart speeds up when she giggles at something I say. I feel the way my gut goes tight when I get a whiff of her strawberry lotion or body wash or shampoo. I feel the way my cock twitches when her arm brushes against mine.

I manage to talk Eliza into providing some highlights from the book she’s reading. And shit, I always knew she was smart—that’s why I hired her to begin with—but as I listen to her share her insights on the topic, I realize that I haven’t been utilizing her to her full potential.

She’s more than just a pretty face that looks nice at client meetings or a set of legs to stare at as she’s bent over the photocopy machine. A woman with a brain has always been my catnip.

Focus, Liam. Focus.

“Thanks for updating your HR file, by the way.” I speak sarcastically. “Kind of hard showing up at my employees’ house uninvited if I don’t know where they live.”

Her lips twitch and curl up at the corners. “Hey, if we’re going to bring HR into this, let’s see where this little dinner meeting rates on the inappropriate scale,” she quips. “Kind of late at night to be hanging out alone in your employee’s basement apartment, isn’t it, Mr. Kline?”

“Touché.” I bring my wine to my lips to hide my smile. “Make sure to go ahead and provide your banking info for direct deposit. We’re trying to go paperless at the office. Save some trees and shit.”

A laugh bursts through those strawberry lips. “You’re all about saving the environment, huh?”

“All about it.” I nod.

“Okay, if we’re talking about going paperless, let’s talk about the way we print out a dozen copies of the meeting minutes every time the executives do a working lunch. And every email has to be printed out with all the attachments. And—”

I hold a hand out, fighting a twitch in my lip. “Okay, okay. Let’s not get carried away. One tree-saving initiative at a time. Can’t have people thinking I’m soft or anything.”

Her laughter peters out but her eyes still twinkle. “That’s fair.”

Our eyes hold and I allow myself to scan her face. I love the glitter in her deep chocolate irises and the swell of her plump red lips and the way she shyly brushes her messy hair from her eyes with her fingertips.

It’s the whole package. The faded shorts. The minimal makeup. The soup-stained T-shirt.

I like this look. Eliza is really fucking cute.

This woman is flawless at the office. Supremely professional, blouse neatly tucked, never a hair out of place. The perfect assistant.

But here, Eliza is real. Seeing her like this in her own element, it’s like I’m meeting a whole different side of my fake wife.

There are two small egress windows along this wall, barely large enough to squeeze through in case of an emergency. I’m not really sure this place is up to code as a residential apartment, but I don’t want to make this my problem. I’ve already got my fair share of those. Moonlight pours in through the dusty little openings, casting a shimmery glow on our makeshift dinner table.

“Tell me about you,” I say when I can’t stand my curiosity any longer.

Her eyes dart down to her plate and she gets busy serving herself a second helping. “There’s really not much to tell. My life is hardly as fascinating as yours.” She chuckles uncomfortably.

“Well, tell me about your family. I’m assuming you have one of those.”

Despair flashes across her expressive eyes. “They’re on the other side of the country. But we’re…close.”

“What about your parents?” I press. “Any siblings?”

“I have two younger sisters. Dana is three years younger than me and Clementine is only two.”

That’s something, I guess. But it feels like she’s purposely holding back. What exactly about her family is she hiding? Okay, fine—she’s a private person, but the way she’s acting is plain-out weird.

“If you’re close, why are you here in Sin Valley?” This town is more of a tourist destination. It isn’t exactly the part of the country that young people grow up aspiring to moveto.

She laughs, but it comes out all wrong. “You know how in the movies, the lead character closes their eyes and drops a pin on the map?” She shrugs with a too-large smile. “I just needed a fresh start. You know, stand on my own. Blaze a new trail.”

When she starts spouting gross cliches, I know she’s being less than truthful. Maybe she’s not entirely lying, but she’s clearly dodging my questions. She doesn’t trust me enough to give me even a sliver of her backstory. It shouldn't bother me so much, but it does.

Now I’m absolutely sure Eliza Jenkins is hiding something about her past. But I decide to back off. She’s avoiding my questions for a reason, and with the Varner deal pending, the stakes are too high to send this woman running for the hills right now.

I take a sip from my mug and decide to put her out of her misery.

“Tell me about your family,” Eliza says quickly and I can see she’s eager to take the spotlight off herself.

I shrug. “My parents have been married thirty-two years and they’re still annoyingly in love. I have two ridiculous brothers—twins. And a grandmother who constantly gives me shit over the fact that I haven’t yet gotten myself a wife and some babies for her to fawn over.”

Eliza is laughing. Must be the expression on my face. I swear I love my family but they’re a frigging headache.

“They sound like awful people. All of them,” Eliza jokes.

“The worst,” I tell her. “I’m keeping you far away from them. They’d turn my life upside down if they ever found out about this fake marriage.”

She nods and salutes me. “Understood, Hubby.” She sips from her cup. “So your grandmother wants to marry you off, huh?”

I nod. “Yup. She’s a traditional woman. She and my grandfather were married for fifty-two years. He was a doctor, she was his secretary. From the moment they first saw each other, it was a done deal. At least that’s the way she tells the story.”

“Aww. That’s romantic.” Eliza makes that dreamy face women make when they watch cute puppy videos on the internet. “What about your parents? How did they meet?”

I chuckle. “Mom was my father’s secretary, too.”

Eliza rumbles with amusement. “Wow—I’m sensing a generational cycle here.”

“Yeah, you and I are just carrying on the trend, aren’t we?”

She laughs and so do I. Even though my gut clenches at the idea that her joke might hold true.

We sit in silence and eat for a while. Then there’s a bone-rattling thump on the ceiling overhead.

I jump to my feet. “What the fuck was that?”

Another bang. A shrill scream fills the air next.

“Who lives up there?” I’m ready to race up the stairs and resuscitate someone if I have to.

But when I glance at Eliza, she doesn’t look concerned at all. Even more confusing, she’s bent in half, laughing.

“What’s going on?” I demand. “Should we be calling the police? It sounds like someone is dying.”

Eliza’s mouth opens to offer an explanation, but then her face crumples into a fit of laughter again.

I tune her out and listen more closely to the sounds. Gradually, the obnoxiously loud groans and thumps from upstairs begin to make sense.

It takes Eliza another minute of stuttering, wheezing, and falling into new fits of giggles before she can rasp out. “It’s my landlord. He and his girlfriend are…getting intimate, if you will.”

Slowly, I lower myself into a tattered recliner positioned diagonal to the coffee table. My forehead creases with bewilderment. “Is it always like this when they have sex?” I ask with a cringe.

She nods, wiping the tears from both her cheeks. She climbs onto the couch behind her and curls up into a ball. “Don’t worry. They never last too long.” She yawns and rubs her eyes. “And the girlfriend doesn’t even live here so they only go at it a few times a week.”

“You live inside a shitty porn.”

“Yeah, I guess so. I’m like an unpaid extra or something.” She snorts.

“Hey, if that’s what you’re into.” I shrug, leaning back into the recliner.

Soon enough, the noises stop and the house falls into silence again.

I exhale a long breath. “How the hell do you live like this?”

She shrugs a shoulder. “It’s really not that bad. Usually, I just tune them out until they’re done.”

I furrow my brow some more, not understanding how she puts up with this.

She snuggles down into her couch. “They’re really a nice couple,” she insists. “The old man was widowed many years ago and he stayed single for all that time. The woman has been alone for a long while, too. They finally came together a few months ago and they’re so sweet. But now they’re scared that they don’t have much time left so they make the most of every moment, y’know. Can you imagine that?” she asks, her voice soft. “Going your whole life alone only to realize at the end that you could have had love all along?” Her eyes close slowly and her words fade away into the most peaceful mumbling.

I want to tell her that love isn’t necessary to a happy life. I want to tell her that romantic feelings are nothing but a distraction. They get in the way of your ambitions, they get in the way of your dreams. They make you settle for good enough when your destiny could have been becoming great.

But I hold my tongue.

Because the woman sleeping soundly on that tattered couch has me reconsidering all the things I’ve always believed in. I hate it.

I rise to my feet and the recliner creaks. Eliza doesn’t stir, though. There’s a blanket on the back of the couch. I drape it over her, pulling it up to her bare shoulders.

Watching her sleep, I mull over my options. It’s late and I know I should get home now, but the idea of going back to my cold, lonely penthouse is about as appealing as the leftover canned soup I set on Eliza’s counter earlier.

I drop back into the recliner, deciding to stay here just a little while longer. The cracked leather pokes at my skin, and the jacked-up spring is practically shoved up my ass. But somehow, the old chair and Eliza’s steady breathing are oddly soothing. Before long, sleep comes for me and I let my eyes drift shut.

When I jolt awake a few hours later, the early morning sun is pouring through the egress windows and bleeding past my closed eyelids.

Eliza is still curled on the couch, fast asleep. Fucking gorgeous.

Because I’m a bastard, I ease the folded-up cartoon drawing of us from beneath the stack of books where Eliza hid it. I know that it’s wrong but I take it anyway. I’ll figure out how to justify it to myself later.

Quietly, I edge toward the door. After staying up half the night talking, she deserves all the sleep she can get. I take a moment to gaze around her tiny place as I slide my feet back into my shoes.

The place is tidy and neatly organized aside from our takeout mess from last night. But what’s striking is how tiny the space is.

And you’d almost expect it to be overflowing with stuff, given that it’s so small. Not an extra square inch to store all her belongings. Especially considering how put together and done-up she is at the office.

But it’s the opposite here.

A high maintenance woman wouldn’t own just a handful of clothes. All I see is this small rolling rack pushed up in the far corner with less than a dozen outfits. Underneath the clothing rack, I count three neatly  organized pairs of shoes. Three. I’ve worn more than that just in the past two days.

How can this be the only crap she owns? I’m starting to realize that I’ve had my assistant pegged all wrong.

Energized by the early morning sun, I amble along the pathway back to my car at the curb. Despite sleeping on thrift store furniture and the awful sounds coming from upstairs, that was the best night’s rest I’ve had since…since…since Eliza fell asleep in my arms on our wedding night.