Page 25 of The Wrong Fiancée

"Yeah, I know. Me too. But I love my wife and my kid so much fucking more."

As I held Felicity, I wasn't sure if I felt about her the way Damian did about Emilia. He'd give up his job, his life,anythingfor her. I wouldn't even give up defending Elika, who, in the large scheme of things, wasn't relevant.

We didn't make love that night.

I didn't feel like it, and thankfully, neither did Felicity. I was conflicted as fuck. I loved Fee. I did, didn't I? But if I loved her, why did seeing Elika make me so damn happy and excited—and why was I so concerned about who and what took the light and joy away from her eyes?

I watched Felicity as she slept. She was beautiful. Classically stunning. Had that blinded me? No. She was more than her face. It was her intelligence, which seemed to have shrunk in the company of her parents. When we'd spent time with them before it had been an evening here and a day there—this was the longest time we were together.

At least in a couple of days, I could avoid Sam and Ginny because I was going to be gone for a week. I had warned Felicity that I'd be working and traveling through the summer. Since she was doing the same thing, we'd asked the resort to set up one of the bedrooms in our bungalow as an office for me. Felicity was working with her father in his office in his bungalow.

Unable to sleep, I went into the second bedroom to work. I lost myself in sorting through the inventory for an upcoming auction, carefully grouping theobjets d'art.

However, thoughts of my time with Elika kept nagging at myconscience. I decided I had to tell Felicity. It wasn’t cheating to withhold something from four years ago, but the fact that it was Elika—the very person I was defending against Felicity and Ginny—made it feel dodgy.

The universe sure loved a good fucking joke atmy expense. How the hell was the best sex of my life related to my fiancée in the most convoluted way?

Chapter Ten

ELIKA

"Idon't know why you're here, Dean," I asked, exasperated when I found him waiting for me when I returned from my morning housekeeping shift. I'd had a crappy day with a vacuum cleaner that died when a fuse shorted, and a bathroom where a guest had forgotten to turn off the tap in their bathtub and gone to sleep after smoking a blunt.

"I wanted to speak with you. Do you have a few minutes?"

I sighed at the unfairness of it all.

I was still in my housekeeping uniform, the least flattering thing ever made in the history of the planet. A brown burlap sack had more elegance than this piece of crap. Meanwhile, Dean was a picture of effortless perfection in his linen pants and crisp shirt, looking like he'd stepped straight off the cover of a magazine. Even in the soft evening light, he had an air of polished ease about him that made me feel frumpier than I already did.

"Come in," I muttered, pushing the door open to my cottage.

The moment he stepped inside, I couldn't help but see my place through his eyes. My cottage—a basic one-bedroom at the edge of the resort—felt even smaller with Dean standing in it. The whole house was no bigger than the size of his suite at the resort, maybe less. I'd made it as cozy as I could, but there was no denying how worn out and simple it was. A small kitchenettewith a two-burner stove and a mini-fridge. A tiny table with mismatched chairs tucked in the corner. In the tiny bedroom, the bed was pushed up against the wall, neatly made with the cheapest bedding I could find. No headboard, just plain white walls behind it.

There was no clutter, at least. It was clean and minimal because there wasn't room for much else. A couple of throw pillows I'd found on sale, a knitted blanket at the foot of the bed to make it seem homier. A few shells and beach stones I'd collected from walks along the shore were placed on the windowsill for a bit of personality. But that was it. Basic. Clean. Plain.

I glanced at Dean, wondering what he saw. Did he notice how small my home was? How bare? How meager this was compared to the luxury he was used to?

"You live here?" He looked around.

"No. This is just a cover; I have a bunker below ground," I quipped sarcastically.

He grimaced. "I didn't mean it like that."

"I know it's not much." Despite my best efforts, I sounded more defensive than casual. "But it's home for now."

Dean didn't say anything at first. His eyes moved slowly around the space, taking it all in. He didn't look judgmental, though. Just curious. He finally met my gaze, and something softened in his expression.

"It's cozy," he said, and for a second, I almost believed him.

I rolled my eyes. "Don't patronize me."

"I'm not," he said quietly. "It's you. It's nice."

I wasn't sure how to respond since he had no clue who I was. We spent two weeks together a long time ago when we were different people—at least I was, so I busied myself by setting my keys down on the small table.

"You said you wanted to talk." I put my hands on my waist, my stance combative.Yeah, very mature, Elika.

He cleared his throat. "Can we sit?"

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