Page 7 of Dearly Betrayed

“Wish me luck.”

“Good luck, Fallie.”

I march off, head held high, suddenly self-conscious of my simple skinny jeans, my sweater, and my coat. My hair’s a mess from the wind, and I maybe could’ve gone a little harder on the make-up, but hells, it doesn’t matter now. I’m here. It’s happening.

I’m about to meet my future husband.

The man turns to me as I approach. My heart starts to race. The tips of my ears heat up. And I swear, my nipples go hard, half from the chill but mostly from a sudden excitement, which is a horrible thing, but at least he won’t see through my layers.

The man is gorgeous.

Drop-dead handsome like an actual model.

It’s not right, seeing a man looking so damn attractive, just standing there.

Square jaw, the right amount of stubble on his cheeks and chin, dark hair and dark eyes, these full lips like fluffy clouds. Kissable lips. Suckable lips. Biteable.

But it’s not just his mouth, which is lovely on its own, but there’s his muscular chest, his big shoulders, his strong hands. The guy’s got one hell of a physique, built and toned like he spends half his waking hours in a gym. His clothes are expensive, perfectly fitted, and almost erotic in the way they cinch at his thighs. He’s got some legs on him, this muscular man. Did I know I was a thigh girl? This man has incredible thighs. The sort of thighs I could lick.

My mind’s going haywire. I’m getting a little too horny at the moment, and I know it’s only nerves. My stupid squirrel-brain’s shorting out because of how huge this moment is and I’m focusing way too much on his looks to distract myself from the magnitude of what this means.

But my God, he really is gorgeous.

I stop a few feet away. He looks at me with this steady gaze, slowly taking me in. Not trying to hide it either, which I kind of like. I’m used to men like him, confident men that know what they want and aren’t afraid of it. I’m not shy myself.

He gives me the once-over, looking down and back up, and his lips quirk slightly.

He likes what he sees.

That sends a thrill into my guts.

Which is dumb, considering Jayson Costa is my mortal enemy.

Yes, he’s hot, but I can’t forget who he is and what he’s done.

Guilt crushes down on me and I lose some of the excited edge as I remember poor dead Papa and his freshly dug grave.

“Hello,” I finally say, breaking the tense silence.

He draws himself up, standing straight. I’m around five-foot-four, and I’d put him over six feet, easy. The guy could crush me between those big thighs of his. Ah hells, the thighs again.

“You’re Fallon Grady.” Not a question. He’s got a nice voice though. Low and resonant.

“You’re Jayson Costa. Glad we got the obvious out of the way.”

His lips press together. “You wanted this meeting and now you got it.”

“Right.” I clear my throat. He’s not giving me much to work with here. “We’re supposed to get married and I figured we should meet before we say the vows.”

“Why bother?”

The way he says it throws me. Totally dismissive, like he really doesn’t think this matters at all.

I open my mouth to reply, but I can’t find the words. I pinned my hopes on this meeting, imagined trying to get past our differences or at least opening a dialogue about what our life might be, but the man standing before me has this expression of total disdain on his face, and I feel nothing but hopelessness wash over me.

I don’t know why I was stupid enough to expect anything else.

“You’re right, why bother getting to know your future wife, you arrogant prick.” It tumbles out before I can stop myself. I’m very aware that it’s the wrong thing to say, but I can’t help it. I’m heated, and when I’m pissed, I’m not great at holding my tongue.

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