Page 23 of Married to the Frenemy

So I went with a staple of every woman’s wardrobe —a little black dress.

“What’s that?”

“Did you shave?” Parker waggles her brows.

I pin her with a fiery stare for using my question against me. I asked her the same thing when she was getting ready for her “business meeting” with Callum. It may have started out as a business meeting, but when they got snowed in together and the hotel only had one room with one bed available, things got interesting.

But things are different between Parker and Callum. For one, they don’t have a shared history to complicate things. Not like Beckham and I do.

“That’s what I thought,” Parker says with a smirk when I refuse to answer.

The truth is, I did shave. Quite extensively, too. There’s nothing wrong with a little self-care once in a while.

“I’ll let you know if I’ll be any later than nine.” I walk toward Maggie and give her a big squeeze. “You be good for Auntie Parker, okay?”

“Yes, Mama,” she says, barely looking away from Bluey.

“I love you.”

“Love you, too.”

I give her one last hug, then make my way out of Parker’s apartment that’s attached to her inn, the plush carpeting in the hallway cushioning my heels until I step onto the hardwood floor of the lobby.

It’s still decked out for the holidays, even though Christmas is over. Parker keeps the decorations up through the second weekend of January to allow any last-minute stragglers to come see it all.

Waving at Heidi at the front desk, I continue farther into the lobby, searching the cozy space for Beckham. A fire crackles in the hearth, Christmas music playing in the background as a few patrons sit at the lobby bar, enjoying a drink.

But there’s still no sign of Beckham.

Until I zero in on the tall man in dark jeans and a crisp black button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up strolling toward me.

I blink repeatedly, convinced I’m seeing things. The man has Beckham’s dark eyes and the tattoos visible on his forearms are an identical match, but the rest of him looks different.

I can’t remember the last time I saw him wear something other than dirty jeans and work boots. Hell, even when I stopped by his mother’s house on Christmas Eve, he looked like he just came from the vineyard.

But tonight, he’s wearing a shirt without stains and jeans that fit his body so perfectly it should be criminal. His hair is neatly styled, albeit in a sexy, disheveled kind of way. He even trimmed his beard.

“Who died?” I ask as he approaches.

“Died?” He stops abruptly, giving me a quizzical look.

“I’m just not used to seeing you in something without mud and grime. I figured there must be some sort of explanation, and a funeral seems the most logical.”

He leans down, his lips a breath from my skin, reminding me of Christmas Eve. My heart hadn’t raced so hard in years.

Probably since the summer I lost him.

“I guess you could call it a funeral,” he says in a husky voice I feel deep in my core. “I am marrying you, after all.” He pulls back and shoots me a mischievous look.

“It was your idea,” I remind him. “I can leave right now and we’ll forget the entire thing.”

“And miss being able to irritate the piss out of you every day for the next few months? Baby, I’m just getting warmed up.”

“Why did I agree to this?” I mutter under my breath, although I’m secretly grateful for the comfortable banter.

To be fair, I’m somewhat surprised by his sudden easy-going attitude toward me. It reminds me of how things once were between us. I’ll happily take this over the heated glares and clipped responses any day.

He places his hand on the small of my back and steers me toward the restaurant. I try to ignore the warmth spreading through me from the innocent touch, but there’s no denying the way my body reacts.

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