Page 8 of Drunk on You

I’m not a huge makeup person, but Mom always said, “Red lipstick is the weapon for savage women.”

I’m not sure if she made up the quote or read it somewhere, but she always wore red lipstick, and in turn, so do I.

The driver rounds the car as I put my lipstick away and mentally psych myself up.

When he opens the door, taking my hand to help me out, I murmur, “Thank you,” just as the front door opens and a gentleman, dressed to the nines in a power suit, steps out.

His dark brown hair is messy in that way that only men can get away with, and the scruff on his face is neatly trimmed. I saw a picture of him from the matchmaking service we used, but it didn’t do him justice. It looked like a mug shot, whereas in person, he looks like a goddamn GQ model.

Ian takes a step forward, his hands resting casually in his pockets, as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. As his gaze ascends my body, taking in every inch of me, I stand still, letting him check out what he’s paid for, knowing that I’m a beautiful woman. I eat healthy, work out regularly, and have a naturally curvy body with ample cleavage that almost looks paid for, but isn’t.

When he’s done checking me out, his emerald eyes meet mine, and I suck in a sharp breath, overcome with a bout of lust I wasn’t expecting to overtake my body.

Until this moment, I thought I knew what I was getting myself into. I figured I would play housewife in the morning and evenings, and while he was at work, I’d do my own thing. But what I didn’t think about is the fact that I’m going to be living with a wealthy, powerful, gorgeous older man who expects me to meet his needs—and that includes sex.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m no virgin. I have my own needs, and I’m no stranger to having them met. But usually, once the orgasms have subsided and we’re both left sated, we go our separate ways. Except now, there’s nowhere to go.

“Sir,” the driver says, his voice cutting through the sexual fog. “Her bags.”

“Thank you. That will be all.” Ian nods once, and the driver scurries back into the car and takes off.

Leaving my bags for Ian to take, I square my shoulders, jut out my breasts, and saunter up to him, ready to play my part. I stop directly in front of him and lean in, placing my hands on his biceps and kissing his cheek. I let my lips linger just a tad too long, knowing I need to seduce this man if I’m going to convince him to play the part of my doting husband in front of my dad—I’ll deal with him finding out I’m a businesswoman and not an actual trophy wife later. But it’s a double-edged sword because during that time, I inhale his masculine scent. It’s woodsy with a hint of spice that flows through my veins and straight to my lady parts, like a direct hit of dopamine.

Holy shit! How the hell can a man smell so sexy?

I stumble back, needing to clear my head, and Ian raises a brow. He’s shrewd—noted.

“Stacey,” he says smoothly, his voice deep and masculine as he speaks the nickname I gave on my résumé, not wanting to use my real name, “welcome home.”

I swallow nervously at his choice of words. It’s doubtful he meant anything by it since he’s made it clear this is temporary, but the word triggers something deep inside of me. The last time I had a home was when my mom was alive. Since the moment she took her final breath, I’ve felt like I no longer have a home.

Images of family dinners and holidays flit through my brain, and I immediately push them aside. This isn’t my home. It’s a means to an end. A temporary dwelling, where I’ll sleep and eat while showing my dad that I’m capable of doing what he couldn’t do—run a company successfully without destroying everyone around him. Just because he made mistake after mistake doesn’t mean I will.

Ian clears his throat, and I realize I haven’t said anything in return, too lost in my thoughts.

“Thank you,” I breathe. “Your home is lovely.”

He tilts his head to the side, and I have no idea why he’s looking at me in confusion until he says, “You sound different in person than on the phone.”

It takes me a second to wrap my head around his words, but once I do, I curse myself to hell. I forgot to use my trophy-wife voice! Shit.

“I do?” I squeak out, playing dumb.

“It’s a good thing,” he says with a grin. “I like your voice better like this.”

“Want to show me around?” I ask to change the subject.

“Of course,” he says, walking around me to grab my bags.

When we enter his home, I stop in the foyer and take it all in. The color scheme is black, white, and gray. The living room is large with a ridiculously big flat-screen TV, plush black leather couches, and a wet bar that rivals a real bar. I don’t have to see the rest of the house to know this is the quintessential bachelor pad.

“Do you have a pool table somewhere?” I ask, half joking.

He chuckles. “I do. In the billiards room.” He shrugs. “I also have a pool, a hot tub, a gym, and a kick-ass outdoor grill.” He leans in, and before I can hold my breath, I inhale another whiff of that damn scent. “When I’m not working, I enjoy having some of my close friends over to barbecue and watch a game. Do you enjoy watching sports?”

“I once dated a guy on the lacrosse team, and that was fun to watch,” I blurt out. “But aside from that, I couldn’t tell you anything about any sports.” I cringe at my word vomit, but in my defense, the delicious smell of him is getting to my head and making me dizzy—and maybe stupid.

Ian barks out a melodic laugh as he steps around me. “Well, since you’ll be living here for the next year, I’m sure I can teach you a thing or two about sports.”

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