Page 39 of Married to the Frenemy

“Exactly.” I press a kiss to the top of her head, then dash up the stairs, coming to an abrupt stop when I see the door is closed. Of course it is. Beckham just said he was going to take a shower. It didn’t dawn on me until now that I’d need to get into the bedroom. I’m so used to it being Maggie and me that the thought never even crossed my mind.

“Beckham, are you decent?” I call out as I knock. “I just need to grab some clothes.”

I wait for a few seconds, but no response comes.

I press my ear up to the cool wood and listen, able to make out the sound of water running. The last thing I want to do is walk in on a naked Beckham, but I need to get dressed.

All I can do is hope he remembered to also close the door to the bathroom.

Placing my palm on the door, I hesitantly push it open, relieved when there’s no sign of Beckham.

I make a beeline toward my suitcase and pull out the first decent outfit I find — a pair of leggings and a tunic. After dressing, I check my reflection in the floor-length mirror and arrange my hair into a messy bun on the top of my head.

It’s innocent enough.

Except my reflection isn’t the only thing I see. Just behind me, the bathroom door is open, giving me the perfect view of the shower as I gaze into the mirror.

The shower where Beckham stands.

But he’s not washing his hair.

He’s giving a certain body part quite a bit of attention.

I should leave. Forget I saw him. Make an effort to learn his schedule so we don’t have to be in the bedroom at the same time.

But I’m mesmerized, unable to look away, even though that’s precisely what I should do. What I need to do.

He’s even bigger and more built than he was during our teenage years, every inch of him hard panes and defined ridges. Even his thighs are a sight to behold. And don’t get me started on the tattoos covering his arms and chest like the work of art he is.

But what has me completely captivated is the way he leans a forearm against the tile wall as he works his erection. The raw desire etched on his face causes a renewed wave of lust to crash over me, forcing me to steady myself with a hand on the dresser.

This is so wrong on so many levels, not to mention a massive invasion of his privacy. But as he jerks himself with increasing desperation, I can’t find the strength to put one foot in front of the other or look anywhere but at his reflection in the mirror. The harder he yanks, the faster my own breathing becomes.

Finally, a hungry growl rips through the space, the sound practically deafening.

But when he snaps his eyes open and catches mine through the mirror, I realize he wasn’t the only one who made a sound. I did, too, the ghost of my wanton moan still intermingling with the symphony of his release.

I’m frozen for a beat, at a loss for words. What can I say? Sorry I watched you jerk off, but it was one of the hottest things I’ve witnessed in a long time and I just couldn’t look away?

I doubt that would go over well.

Instead, I spin on my heels and hurry out of the room, contemplating the likelihood of never seeing Beckham again for the duration of our marriage.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

HALEY

“There’s the newlywed,” Parker sings as I walk into the kitchen of her inn after dropping Maggie off at preschool.

My original plan was to do some baking in order to start boosting my social media presence before having to get to my mid-day dog-walking clients. The last thing I want to do right now is be in the same vicinity as Beckham Lawrence, even if he’s probably at work by now.

I don’t want to take the chance.

Instead, I decided to spend some time with Parker, something I don’t get much of these days.

“Don’t remind me,” I mutter, heading toward the canteen of coffee on the serving station. The inn may be closed for renovations, but she still keeps the coffee nice and fresh, probably for all the construction workers currently swarming the grounds.

“Is the hanky-panky that bad?” Grandma Estelle asks from her perch on a barstool in front of the windows overlooking the vast lake.

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