Page 4 of Wished

When I’m done scrolling through seven years of this fake calendar marriage, I have one question. Who in the hell is Mrs. Barone?

No, two questions.

Who in the hell is Mrs. Barone, and how did she convince my assistant to alter my calendar?

There’s nothing to it—I’m going to have to see this woman. I’ll confront her, end this farce, and then make sure she never comes around again.

“Send her in,” I say curtly, clicking off the call.

I stride around my desk and stand on the old, dark rug in the darkest, most shadowed spot in the room. It’s something I learned from my father. Always face an opponent standing up, preferably from the shadows.

I face the door, the chill draft blowing over me. It scrapes against my hot skin and I let out a calming breath. The sound of traffic is still there, an almost imperceptible hum. Although it’s not loud enough to smother the sound of my heartbeat in my ears.

This is nonsense.

I don’t get nervous. At least not when facing a lone lying woman in my own office. But, there’s something more happening. I can feel it.

I’m still compelled to lean forward, to hear that whispered breath. There’s something happening. Something that’s about to happen, or something that already has.

The brass door handle turns slowly, and then the thick door swings open, sweeping over the rug. The bright light from reception spills into the dark office and the woman cautiously steps into the room.

Hell.

Hell.

I don’t know her.

I’ve never seen her before in my life.

I would remember if I had.

I’m swept under and carried along, a flash flood crashing over me. I’ve never experienced anything like this before. I’ve never wanted to. But even though I’ve never felt it, I know exactly what it is.

There’s a roaring in my ears. The room is fuzzy and watercolor-soft, the woman the only point of vibrancy. My blood pulses, my heart thudding a hard, painful beat, and I clench my jaw against the almost overwhelming urge to walk forward, take this woman in my arms, and kiss her. There’s a freckle over her lips that’s irresistible. I want to taste it and?—

Hell.

It’s hot in here. I’m sweating. I know exactly what this is.

The woman is beautiful. Not in the traditional sense, but beautiful like a fallen angel. Her eyes are wide. Dark blue, almost night-sky black. Her hair is wild, black and curly. It falls around her, messy and bed-rumpled, and all I want to do is run my hands through it and pull her close. Her mouth is cherry-red and tempting.

She closes the door behind her, and when she does, a cool sweep of air brushes over me, bringing with it a familiar scent. She smells just like my freshly laundered bedsheets.

A bolt of lust hits me hard.

Who is this woman?

Strangely, she’s barefoot, wearing only a white button-up shirt with a black trench coat thrown over it.

Wait a moment.

That’smywhite button-up shirt. That’smyblack trench coat.

I narrow my eyes.

And that—that—is my grandmother’s diamond ring on her left ring finger.

A clamp squeezes my rib cage and a fire rages through me. It’s an inferno, and I burn.

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