Page 42 of F*ck Marriage

“Absolutely. A hundred percent.”

A whisk of a smile. Satcher is amused.

“We won’t tell your girlfriend,” I say. “It’ll strictly be an office lie.”

“And tell me what exactly this lie of yours accomplishes?”

I sit down on the edge of the bed. “It’ll get Pearl off my back. She’s not going to suggest you fire your girlfriend.”

“My girlfriend?” His hands are on his hips. “I thought we were just fucking in this scenario of yours.”

I chew on my lip as I think. “Yeah, but it’ll be more effective if we’retogether-together.”

I’m pacing back and forth between the bed and the dresser. I sigh at the pained expression he’s wearing. Is it really that terrible to pretend to be with me? I’m not a Brazilian swimsuit model, but I’m not exactly ugly either.

“Or I could just saynowhen Woods brings it up…”

“Half the staff is friends with Pearl. She’s going to use them against me. But if they think I’m your girlfriend, they’ll back off.”

“You want to make Woods jealous,” he says.

“That too.”

Satcher sighs; it’s a deep, weary sigh, and I immediately feel guilty.

“Oh God. I’m doing it again. I’m sorry—”

I make for the door. Oh my God, what am I turning into? Using Satcher for my benefit.

He hooks me around the waist as I try to walk past. Warm hands graze my skin. My face is hot from embarrassment. I’m ashamed of myself, ashamed of what this is doing to my brain. I cover my face with my hands so he can’t look at me, but Satcher gently pulls them away. He doesn’t let go, and holding my fingers between his, he forces me to look at him.

“You’re hurting.”

“No,” I say. “I’m fine.”

“I know you, Billie…”

I want to ask him how he knows me when I don’t even know myself.

“You don’t,” I tell him. “Whatever you think you know is wrong. I’m not the same person I used to be.”

“I hope not,” he says.

My head snaps up, and I search his eyes for meaning.

“We aren’t meant to stay the same. Life hits us from every direction, and we build thick skin in those places ... calluses. It’s the way we survive.”

“I don’t have a callus yet,” I blurt. “In that spot ... where my marriage was.” I look away so he can’t see the saltwater pooling, ready to spill out and make me look weak.

“No, you don’t.”

I stare at him. He’s so ... together. And I am not. By comparison, he’s completely different than Woods, who is big and rugged and has puppy dog eyes. Satcher is chiseled and composed and his eyes are mischievous. But there’s always been an element to Satcher that puts him in a league of his own.

“I’ve always been intimidated by you,” I tell him.

“What?” He laughs—a short, bewildered laugh—like he can’t imagine why.

“You’ve always seemed older than the rest of us. More mature. I’m thirty years old, and I still feel like a little girl when I’m around you.”

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