Rita
A driver from the Callahan family meets us at the airport. He’s a big guy, burly, dark hair. Never takes off his sunglasses. “Let me know if you need anything,” he says as I climb into the back seat with Scar. “Shouldn’t be too long of a trip. Sit back and relax.” He puts up the divider as the town car pulls out.
“Seatbelt,” Scar says. I roll my eyes at him, but buckle up. He leans over toward me a few minutes into the trip, hand on my thigh. I look at him, surprised. His lips brush against my cheek and I instinctively move to push him away, about to ask him what the hell he’s doing, but he holds me back. “We’re in character, wife,” he whispers in my ear. “Don’t assume they’re not listening. From here on out, even if we’re alone, we’re not alone.”
I take a deep breath. Right, we’re in enemy territory now.
I reach up and stroke my fingers through his thick hair. I smile at the way his gaze sharpens, unable to help the thrill that runs down my spine. I love when I make him look at me like that-like he’s not acting at all, but responding to a deep, animal need.
A need for me.
But he pulls away before we can go any further. He lapses into silence while I study him for a moment longer before looking out the window.
The flight over was easy. Scar wasn’t in a talkative mood, which worked for me. I put on headphones, read a book, and soon enough we were landing in a little regional airport called Beverly.
We spent all last night going over the plan. Talking over everything we learned about each other. All the details about our fake Vegas wedding. Our living arrangement, the apartment that burned down, our financial arrangement. Anything a married couple might need to know. “Callahan won’t ask about whether we have a joint account or not, but the more detail we have in the back of our minds, the easier it’ll be to keep the illusion going for the next couple days,” Scar said as we got into bed together. “We just need to get through Saturday and Sunday.”
Now, in the car out to the beach, I wonder if I can really do this.
Lie to a house full of rich, dangerous gangsters. Pretend to be married and in love with a man I barely know. A man that was my Asshole Boss barely a week ago.
I don’t exactly remember turning suicidal, but apparently, I am.
Too late to give up now.
My boss is my husband, for better or worse.
Mostly worse. But it does have perks.
Like that handsome mouth inches from mine. My fingers in his thick hair.
Small perks. Minor, insignificant perks.
Still, I have to find the good in all this.
The small town vibe turns beachy after ten minutes of driving. Soon, we cross over a bridge, and we’re deep into shore country-scrubby, small pines and trees, sand everywhere, windswept dunes, the works. We wind along narrow, overgrown streets, past gorgeous houses, until the driver pulls along a bendy driveway that ends with an enormous house perched on the edge of a steep bluff.
Scar takes my hand. “Ready?” he asks.
“Ready,” I say. “It’ll be fun.” And I almost mean it.
I love the beach, and I brought a few bikinis I think Scar’s going to lose his shit over.
The house is incredible. It looks like an Old Money New England mansion with a slate roof, white walls, manicured lawn, and lots of columns holding up the various roof peaks. Dozens of windows peer out at the incredible landscape.
Before I can open the door, Scar grabs me by the arm and pulls me over to him.
“What are-” My protest is drowned by his mouth pressed up to mine.
I yelp slightly in alarm. Why the hell is he kissing me out of nowhere? Why the hell is-
But oh, god, it feels good, it feels really good.
His tongue is liquid heavy. His lips are soft, lush, dreamy. His grip on my body tightens as I melt into his embrace, forgetting for just a second that this isn’t real.
Because it feels real.
It feels so real. A sharp spike of excitement bursts down into my core, and I want this kiss. I want it badly, want it to keep going. I wrap my fingers through his hair, pulling the back of his head, tightening my grip. I let out one of those whimpers I will absolutely swear doesn’t exist when this is over because I can’t help myself.
Scar kisses like a dream.
He kisses me like I’ve always wanted to be kissed.
Like I’m the only woman in the world worth kissing at all.
Slowly, it breaks apart. He stares at me. I’m breathless, dizzy with his taste. A smirk breaks across his lips as his forehead presses to mine for one brief moment.
“They’re watching,” he whispers.
The spell shatters into pieces.
Right.
Of course.
He kissed me for show-not because he wanted it.
This isn’t real. Our relationship is a sham.
Except for one sparkling moment, it felt real.
It felt good.
One incredible second. The length of one kiss.
“Who?” I manage to say.
“Orin and his wife, Molly. Are you ready?”
“Got it. Orin and his wife.” I take a deep breath. “I’m ready.”
Except I’m not.
Because no amount of discussion, no long nights spent talking, no daydreaming could have ever prepared me for this.
Not for the feeling that crawled into my stomach the moment he kissed me, or for the massive beach-front property, or for the smell of sand and sea in the air, or for this nervous feeling pulsing into my toes.
I want to scream.
Mostly I want to kiss him again.
But most of all, I wish my apartment hadn’t burned down, I wish my parents hadn’t used my college fund, and I wish Cait were here to help me out.
Too bad I’m stuck being me.
We get out of the car together, holding hands.