Page 68 of Never the Bride
“Falling in love isn’t the goal. The goal is to get the judge to believe we tried to have a good-faith marriage.”
“Why can’t the goal be both?” my mom asks. “Why can’t you convince the judgeandfall in love with Camila?”
I open my mouth to protest, but nothing comes out.
“I always thought your end goal was to settle down and get married to a great woman.”
“It is, but?—”
“Then what would be so bad about falling in love with your wife?”
I stare back at my mom, contemplating her words.
Marriage to an incredible woman I adore was always part of my plan.
Whatwouldbe so bad about falling in love with Camila?
I’m not saying that’s what’s going to happen. I’m just saying, why am I actively campaigning for itnotto happen?
Camila
I crackopen my bedroom door.
The house is dark.
So I make my escape, tiptoeing down the hall to the kitchen so I don’t wake Hess—or more accurately, so I don’tseeHess.
After meeting his parents the other day, bumping into him would feel awkward.
I don’t meet parents.
Ever.
That’s why I stayed in my room the rest of that afternoon and have been working late every night this week. I’m only coming out now, when I’m sure he’s gone to bed, because I’m hungry and can’t stare at legal papers any longer.
I open the refrigerator, using the light to help me find a bowl. Hess wasn’t joking about his ice cream addiction. I’ve never seen a freezer so well stocked. Once I’ve drizzled chocolate syrup over every scoop, I close the refrigerator and sit in the dark, eating my middle-of-the-night treat.
The lights flip on, blinding me.
“Hey.” Hess walks into the room in only shorts.
I choke on my ice cream, shocked to be caught and shocked to see him shirtless again. Of course, I’ve fantasized about it since the shower incident over a month ago. Guilty as charged.
My eyes drop to the bowl in front of me, avoiding the valleys and plains of his chest. “Hey.”
“Ice cream at night,” he snickers. “You’re my kind of woman.”
His kind of woman?Normally, that phrase would bug the heck out of me, but when Hess says it, it sort of feels like a compliment.
He gets out a bowl and a variety of flavors, placing them on the kitchen island across from where I sit. I tell myself not to look at him. It’s just skin—literally the largest organ on the human body—nothing special here. But my eyes betray me, tracing over his chest and arms, cataloging every inch.
Totally normal.
Totally fine.
Just a shirtless man I can’t seem to stop looking at.
“Sorry about my parents the other night.”
