Page 47 of Marry Lies
I’m concentrating on finishing the sketch of the jeans as Miles saunters into the kitchen, looking alert.
“Morning,” he says gruffly.
He’s already dressed in a white button-down, sleeves adorned with those goldRcufflinks. The black trousers hug his waist and hips perfectly, and I quickly glance at his black belt with the gold Cartier buckle, admiring how the gold of his cufflinks complement his entire outfit.
How is it that he always looks so put together?
I’m staring at him and wondering if he sleeps in his suit—standing up, like a vampiric bat—when he clears his throat and wakes me from my stupor.
“Estelle?”
I jump at his use of my name, and I’m suddenly reminded of last night. Of my secret wank. Ofhis.
Fuck.
“Sorry, yes, good morning.”
He smirks as he grinds his espresso, but he doesn’t say anything. I suddenly realize I’m still in my silk turquoise pajama set andnotwearing a bra.
I don’t even want to know what my hair looks like…
I smooth it down with my hands before clearing my throat. “So, I was thinking…” I start, clasping my hands together on the island. “We should probably practice.”
My cheeks flame, and when I look up at Miles, he’s leaning his hip against the counter, watching me with a confounded expression.
“Practice what?” he asks carefully.
I sigh. “Those pictures from the wedding reception were truly atrocious. Anyone with half a mind will see through our ruse if it happens again. We might be able to play those pictures off by saying it was nerves, but if it happens again? The media will see right through us. Not to mention, they won’t want to give us publicity if they think we’re always miserable together.”
“And what, exactly, are you proposing?” he asks.
Shrugging, I tuck a stray curl behind my left ear. His eyes track my movements as I swallow nervously.
“On a scale of one to ten, how comfortable are you with me? Physically?” I add, hating myself for having to ask him such an audacious question.
“Zero.”
I press my lips together. “Charming,” I mutter, irritated. “I figured as much, and that’s why we should practice.”
“Estelle, what are you asking me?”
My nostrils flare at his use of my full name. I know he’s doing it to piss me off, and it’s working. Suddenly, an idea comes to me.
“I know you’re probably used to women falling at your feet, but you’re going to need to work a little harder with me,” I tell him. “For starters, we should have nicknames. What do you think of sweetheart?”
His hands stop fidgeting with his cufflinks at the pet name. “Don’t call me that.”
“Pookie?” I try.
He scoffs. “I’m going to vomit.”
I laugh. “I’ll keep trying out different names until you like one,love,” I offer, crossing my arms.
“Or we could just call each other by our first names,” he mutters, pressing the start button for his espresso.
“We could, but you seem to have a problem with calling me Stella.”
His jaw tenses as he watches the coffee drip into his porcelain cappuccino mug. “I’m not a nickname person.”
