Page 11 of Real Fake Husband

I turn on the water and strip, tossing my clothes onto the floor. Scanning the space, I don’t see any towels. But there are two doors on the other side of the bathroom, so I check each one.

To my delight, the first one leads to a small laundry room. I need to take a second to admire the washer and dryer because all I’ve been using are the beat-up ones in the basement of my building.

The water is wonderfully hot when I slip into the tub. I lean back and let out a content sigh.

I close my eyes, trying to relax. It’s not easy. Because as soon as I do, Callum’s face pops into my head. Those eyes, those lips in that infuriating smirk.

My blood boils.

I know, I know. My beef with him is from years ago, and I should let it go. I probably would if he hadn’t immediately started pushing my buttons. It’s like he wants me to be annoyed with him.

Knock. Knock.

A sharp knock on the door startles me out of my relaxation. Good grief, what does he want? Thank God the door’s locked.

“What?” I call out.

“Food’s here, you want some?”

“No.” Why is he asking,again? Annoying. I told him I wasn’t hungry.

“Okay, I’ll put the rest in the fridge, in case you change your mind.”

The relaxing vibe is instantly gone. Oh well, it was nice while it lasted. By now the water is cold anyway. I haul myself out of the tub, too exhausted to think about anything anymore. My need for sleep overpowers everything else.

I dry myself with the fluffy towel and slip on my nightie. It’s sleeveless and short, at least a few inches above my knees. I put on my white robe and tie it around me. Holding my toothbrush in my hand, I go through my toiletry bag. Darn, I think I forgot my toothpaste. I borrow Callum’s—it’s neatly placed next to the sink. Once I’m done brushing my teeth, I run my towel over my hair and toss it with my clothes before leaving the bathroom, using my fingers to comb through the knots. Even though I’m exhausted, I wonder if I should take a few minutes to sketch. It’s been a few days and my hands are itching to grab some charcoal.

That idea goes out the window when I go into the bedroom. The bed looks so inviting, and all I want is to crawl under the covers and pass out. Intending to do just that, I pull back the comforter. I reach down to untie my robe.

“Do you want to be the big spoon or the little spoon?” he rumbles.

I nearly jump out of my skin at the sound of his voice. I never even heard Callum behind me. “Jesus! Don’t sneak up on me like that,” I snap, pressing a hand over my racing heart.

“I don’t remember you being so jumpy.”

I have a sharp reply right on the tip of my tongue, but it leaves my brain instantly when he takes off his shirt.

Gulp.

My mind is a blank slate.

All I can think of is howrippedhe is.

One hundred ninety pounds’ pure muscle.

But more than that, his collection of tattoos has its own beauty, and I can’t help staring. Some of them are straightforward. A flaming skull covers his right shoulder, the flames traveling down to wrap around his forearm. On his left pec, a detailed human heart (anatomically correct) dripping with blood is right over his actual heart. On his left forearm, a motorcycle takes up the entire area. Yet there are more abstract pieces, mostly tribal patterns and symbols, from what I can see.

From an artist’s standpoint, the work is stunning. I’ve never seen tattoos so detailed and beautiful. From a woman’s standpoint, goddamn, he’s smoking hot. I catch myself and look away. Thank God he doesn’t notice.

He crosses to the other side of the bed, and it’s only then that I find my voice again. “What are you doing?”

“Yeah, it’s still early, but I’m beat. I know it’s our wedding night, but sorry, honey. Not tonight.”

“That’s not what I mean,” I say. “Why are you climbing into bed?”

He pauses in place. “Are you serious right now?”

“We arenotsleeping together.”

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