Page 80 of Love in Fine Print

I started to respond, but then I remembered I didn’t live alone anymore. I had a wife who I should probably run this past. Especially since if Jake stayed with us, he’d be in the guest room, which Olivia had been staying in.

Jake didn’t know that this wasn’t a ‘real’ marriage. If he were at the house, we’d have to act like a married couple twenty-four-seven. Olivia and I would have to share a room. So, yeah, I probably should run this by her.

“Of course!” I replied.

“Are you sure? You just got married.”

Yeah, and with you in the house, I could actually act like it.

“No worries, man. You’re family. You are always welcome.”

He sounded relieved as he told me the dates he’d be in San Francisco. He was flying in on Christmas Eve morning and planned on staying until after the New Year. Ten days, which meant ten nights.

As I hung up the phone, my mind wandered to the sleeping arrangements. We’d have to share a room, but obviously, I could sleep on the floor. Or in the bed. If that was the case, Jake’s visit was the best Christmas present I could ever get.

A man’s hand slapped me on my shoulder. “Whitaker! How have you been?”

I turned and recognized him as one of the big shots I’d been introduced to at the wedding. Not just any big shot, he wasthebig shot, George Wallace. The firm was started by his grandfather, passed down to his father and then to him. Nepotism at its finest.

“Mr. Wallace, nice to see you again.”

“Ah, call me George.”

Three other men were circled around him. I’d only met them briefly at the wedding, and couldn’t remember their names individually, but I did remember Olivia referred to them as The Three Stooges.

One of the Stooges lifted his glass in a cheer. “To Ben Whitaker, it takes a real man to tame The Maneater!”

All of the other men, including George, laughed as they lifted their glasses.

I knew that George held Olivia’s fate in his hands, so I couldn’t come right out and tell him what I thought about anyone speaking about my wife that way. So instead, I just corrected the asshole. “My wife didn’t get tamed. If anything, she tamed me.”

“The Maneater strikes again.” George bellowed. They all chuckled again at the humorless comeback as I lifted my beer to my lips and sipped.

The conversation turned to sports, cigars, and women, and I did my best not to show the disdain I felt for these self-aggrandizing, misogynistic pricks. I didn’t want my negative opinion of them to show on my face and possibly have a detrimental effect on Olivia’s career.

I was about to excuse myself, when I felt a hand slip around my upper arm.

“Gentlemen, I hope you don’t mind if I borrow my husband.”

When I turned, I was momentarily stunned. She looked like she’d just stepped out of Old Hollywood. Olivia’s blonde hair fell in soft waves over her off-the-shoulder black dress that molded to her generous curves and ended right below her knees showcasing the sensual lines of her calves and ankles. Her lips were a bright shade of red that enhanced her full mouth. I wanted so badly to lean down and kiss her, which technically, I was allowed to do, but I refrained. Red lipstick and kissing did not go hand in hand and I didn’t want to smear it.

“Wow, you look…amazing,” I sighed in wonder.

She smiled up at me adoringly. “Thank you.”

I knew that she was playing the part. If we were alone, she wouldn’t have said thank you. It frustrated me that the only time she’d accept a compliment was when we had an audience.

We quickly said our goodbyes to her boss and the trio of blowhards before gravitating to the bar. As we waited for her drink, she looked up at me with her big brown eyes, and I felt my chest constrict at the endless depths of their beauty. Her whisky irises were surrounded by deep chocolate rims. Their almond shape was framed by dark, thick lashes. I could stare at her every second of every minute of every hour of every day for the rest of my life and never tire of seeing her.

Her full, red lips pursed slightly as her nose scrunched in the cutest way as the men we’d just excused ourselves from voices raised. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” I assured her. “They just like the sound of their own voices.”

“Oh, no. Not them. I’m sorry that I’m late. I was on a call with a potential new client who is a big fish. He’s not sure if he wants to go with the firm, so four of us had to pitch to him, and, of course, I went last. I’m sorry it took me so long."

“No worries,” I assured her.

Her eyes squinted as she tilted her head to the side. It was obvious that she was trying to read me. I’d noticed her doing it quite a lot lately.

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