“Deal.” She gave me a tiny smile. “Our first assignment of duties. Look at us, crushing this marriage thing already. Other newlyweds would be jealous. If they only knew it was all fake.”
Fake. My shoulders tensed. She was right. This marriage was as fake as my father’s handshakes and my mother’s interest in her son’s life.
I hated fake as much as I hated chocolate chip cookies.
“What?” Eloise nudged my elbow with hers.
“Nothing.” I stood from the step and walked inside.
The smell was better already, that fan blowing in the fresh, forest air. Or maybe my nose had just adjusted after the shock of the stench.
I made my way to the kitchen, my muscles already heavy and tired. My body needed fuel, so I opened the fridge and took out leftovers from dinner last night. Grilled chicken breasts, roasted vegetables and wild rice.
Eloise followed me inside, coming to stand beside the island. There was a pitcher on the countertop, one I hadn’t noticed when I’d come inside. Orange slices and apple rings floated in a ruby red liquid.
“Want some sangria?” She walked to a cabinet, taking out a cup. Then she poured herself a glass, taking a sip and grimacing. “Yum.”
“Hungry?” I asked, taking out a plate.
“Not really. I ate a lot of cookie dough.”
I frowned and took out another plate. Nutrition was important. Cookie dough and sangria weren’t going to be her dinner. So I dished us both food, my plate twice as full as hers, and carried them to the card table with forks and napkins.
Eloise took the chair beside mine, slouching in the cheap seat.
We needed to get the rest of the furniture from her rental, including the dining table. Most of her larger pieces wouldn’t fit in my Yukon, so I was going to ask Foster to borrow his truck and give me a hand lifting the heavy pieces.
But before I asked for a favor, I was letting him chill. We’d agreed to meet on Monday morning at the gym. Hopefully by then, some of his anger would have passed. Knowing Foster, he was probably at home, stewing over my lip. He’d already texted me an apology. And, unlike any of the Edens, a congratulations.
Foster and I would get past this. Probably. We’d get back to normal. Hopefully. Then in a week or two, I’d finish at Eloise’s house and we’d be done with moving.
Without any help from her fucking brothers.
The way they’d treated me had been fair. If I had a sister and she’d married a stranger in Vegas, I probably would have confronted the bastard too. But to yell at Eloise? To scold her like a child?
No. Fuck no.
Had anyone been happy for her? Or were they all just pouting because she hadn’t included them? That she’d done something without their approval first?
Foster had told me about the Edens. He had a lot of respect for Talia’s family. But they had a lot of work to do to earn mine.
Not that it mattered. Sooner rather than later, I’d just be that man who’d married Eloise. A mistake. The guy who’d disappeared after a quick divorce.
Eventually, I’d become a no one. A distant memory.
My fork stabbed a piece of chicken too hard, scraping against the plate.
While I inhaled my food, Eloise picked at hers. Every sip of her sangria looked pained but she seemed determined to drink the glass.
“Have you, um . . . gone to the coffee shop?” she asked, poking at a cube of squash.
“No.”
“I’ve gone every day.” Another piece of squash got added to her fork but she didn’t lift it to her mouth. “Lyla made my favorite pumpkin scones yesterday. She hasn’t made me pay for coffee all week.”
“And that’s a bad thing?”
“Lyla always makes us pay. Not that any of us mind. We want to support her business. But she’s refused when I offered. And she only bakes with pumpkin in the fall.”
So Lyla was pissed too. Or hurt. Or both.
Eloise set down her fork. “Fake marriage is hard.”
I stabbed another bite of cold chicken, again harder than necessary. Did she need to keep reminding me this was fake? I was well aware.
“My parents asked me to come to the ranch for a family dinner tomorrow night. That’s why I made cookies. And sangria.” She took a drink, swallowing hard. “I think I’ll just stop by the grocery store tomorrow and buy a bottle of wine.”
I chewed, my jaw tensing as I waited for her to invite me along.
But Eloise sipped that sangria, not uttering a word. By the time her glass was empty, the cringing had stopped and my plate was empty, unlike hers.
“Done?” I asked, standing.
She nodded.
I took care of the dishes, then dug my phone from my pocket, pulling up a recipe. Then I rifled through the cupboards for a bowl and mixer.
“What are you doing?” Eloise asked, coming to the kitchen to refill her glass.
I didn’t answer. I just worked with quiet efficiency, knowing she’d figure it out.
When I hit the button on the oven to start it preheating, I knew the burnt smell would return, but hopefully the sugar and cinnamon would beat it out.
And while I made oatmeal raisin cookies, something I hadn’t done in years, Eloise stood beside the island, watching and drinking.
Thirteen minutes after I put the first batch in the oven, they were on a cooling rack and the last dozen was baking.
Now she wouldn’t show up at the ranch empty-handed. Even if she didn’t like oatmeal raisin.
“You’re incredibly sexy in the kitchen,” she said. “And when you smile. Except you don’t smile enough. Why is that?”
I lifted a shoulder, leaning against the counter. Maybe there just wasn’t much to smile about.
She shifted away from the island, taking the space beside mine. “I’m tipsy.”
So whatever popped into that gorgeous head of hers was coming out of her pretty mouth.
“Will you smile for me?”
I smiled.
Her nose scrunched up. “That’s not your real smile. Your eyes aren’t doing the crinkle thing.”
“Crinkle thing?”
She waved it off, lifting her glass. But before she could take another drink, I stole it from her hand, bringing the sangria to my mouth.
Fuck, it was awful.
She’d used too much orange juice or too much rum or too much wine. Maybe too much of everything. It was like drinking diluted sweet and sour sauce.
“Bad, right?” She pouted.
I answered by finishing her glass in a single gulp.
“Jas,” she whispered. Damn, but I liked it when she called me Jas. Her gaze dropped to my mouth. “I don’t want to sleep on the couch anymore.”
Thank fuck. I set the empty glass in the sink. The pitcher would get poured down the drain later. The cookies had a minute left, but I took them out anyway, shutting off the oven and leaving them on the stovetop.
Then I took Eloise’s hand, leading her to the bathroom. With a quick flick on the knob, I turned on the shower.
“Turn around,” I ordered.
She obeyed without hesitation, facing the mirror.
I reached behind my head, yanking off my T-shirt. Then I shoved my shorts and boxers from my legs, kicking them off with my shoes. My cock jutted out, hard and throbbing, aching for the beautiful woman who stood silently staring at our reflection.