Page 59 of Icing the Enemy

He didn’t say anything else and went to his workout room.

As I put the finishing touches on my hair, pulling it half back in a braid then a messy bun and leaving the rest hanging long, I apply my makeup. Next, I carefully wiggle into the dress I bought with Corbin’s credit card. The less he talks to me the more I’m going to spend.

Footfalls come from the master bedroom. He must walk right by because I hear his heavy steps going down the stairs. When I look over the railing, he’s pacing back and forth. Why is he nervous? They’re his friends and teammates.

He takes a call as I’m walking down into the living room. I catch the end of his conversation; his words are low. “Yes, whatever she wants.”

My heart flutters, hoping that he's talking about me and not some other woman. But even if he’s talking about me, is this just another time he’s trying to rescue me instead of talking to me? I try not to let my insecurities show as I wait for him to notice me. When he finally turns and sees me, his jaw drops, and I feel a touch of satisfaction.

"I can't take you out looking like that," he says, his eyes roaming over my body. "I won't be able to keep the guys off you."

Determined to stand firm and not let his velvety words distract me, I say, “I’m yours, and they know it. Maybe it would help if you acted like it.”

“I can put on a show, but Oakley, I’m trying to protect us both.” He runs a powerful hand over his stubbled jaw. It’s obvious he hasn’t shaved for a couple of days.

“By ignoring me?” I lift a brow, indicating I’m not buying his excuse.

“I’m not ignoring you. You’ve had nothing to say either. This will be easier when it’s over if we keep our distance when we’re not in public.” He avoids meeting my eyes while a pained expression covers his face.

My resolve is weakening to stay in this loveless fake marriage. I thought we could be friends while continuing this charade. At first, I thought it would be worth it to get my trust fund, but then we had to have sex.

I didn’t know before, but I do now—sex changes everything for better or worse. My insides laugh because our tango constitutesworse.

"That's not what I signed up for, Corbin. If you can't handle even talking to me, then I can’t do this. I gave up my work to be here for you. The least you could do is try." Every organ in my body shakes, but I keep my hurt wrapped under my skin.

His stare lingers, and our eyes catch. He counters, “This was your idea. Your plan.”

Corbin Shearer is always right, and I mean that. He thinks everything through. He thought about our arrangement after we had sex and if I’m correct, he’s being honest. It’s the only way neither of us gets too attached and gets hurt more than necessary.

I nod. “Are we driving separately since you can’t stand being in the same room with me?” My trembling lip betrays my sadness and hurt.

He steps into my personal space, skimming my arm with his hand. “Oakley.”

“Don’t. I don’t know how much more I can take. Let’s go make the world believe we’re happy.”

I walk past the clear acrylic wipe -off board I bought to count down the days until we can file for divorce. I erase the number eighty-three and write eighty-two with a bright pink marker. If he understands the meaning, he doesn’t address it. We takeslow steps into the garage as he clicks the key fob of his BMW and opens my door. Corbin Shearer, even if he hates you, he’s a gentleman as always.

Corbin swipes his card to get into the administrative offices, and we walk down the same hallway where I met my father.

“Why is it so empty?”

“The event is in the sky suite.”

We wind through some corridors with murals on the wall. One is a scene of an actual game and of course, Corbin’s hands are raised in victory with his stick in one hand. Even though the helmet hides his hair, it can’t hide his eyes and that smile that melts me from the inside out.

In an attempt to lighten the mood before we go into a party having to fake happiness, I goad him, “You’re a lot smaller in real life.” I tip my lips suggestively.

He can’t help but chuckle.

Ahead, people are laughing and on cue, Corbin places his hand on the small of my back.

“Showtime,” I mutter under my breath.

Corbin and I are stopped several times by the people milling outside the suite, and he introduces me, pecking my cheek lovingly, and squeezing my waist for good measure. When we enter the suite there are gold, white and translucent champagne-colored balloons and a congratulations sign hanging on the wall.

Congratulations on Your Happily Ever After

Corbin and Oakley

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