Chapter 10
877words
I was still trying to process what had just happened.
Luke was still holding me bridal-style, pressed against his bare chest. My arms remained locked around his neck.
I could feel the heat radiating from his skin, hear the steady thump of his heart against my ear. Each breath filled my lungs with his clean, masculine scent.
My brain had completely short-circuited.
What had just happened?
Had I just been used as a prop in this man's Academy Award-worthy performance?
Luke made no move to put me down. He looked down at me, his dark eyes fixed intently on my face.
We were impossibly close.
Close enough that I could count his eyelashes, see the tiny mole on the bridge of his nose, feel his warm breath against my lips.
The atmosphere shifted, charged with something dangerous.
Heat flooded my face, spreading down my neck.
“Could you… put me down now?” I finally managed, my voice embarrassingly breathless.
His eyes roamed my face before settling on my parted lips.
His Adam's apple bobbed once.
Then, with unexpected gentleness, he lowered me to my feet.
My legs felt like jelly. I grabbed the nearest piece of furniture for support, desperate to put some distance between us.
“What was that?” I demanded, pointing at him accusingly, though my shaking finger undermined any authority I might have had.
From a purely theatrical perspective, his performance had been flawless.
His little display had not only convinced Melissa and Sophie of our relationship but had effectively branded us as passionately in love.
“Improvisation,” he said flatly, as if the seductive man who'd just held me in his arms was someone else entirely.
He walked to the kitchen, filled a glass with water, and drained it in one long swallow.
I watched a droplet slide down his throat and disappear onto his chest.
“They won't be back tonight,” he said, setting down the glass. “And after that performance, they'll probably keep their distance for a while.”
I nodded. After tonight's display, the gossip would spread like wildfire—Eve Sullivan and her boy toy, madly in love.
Not the most dignified reputation, but it would certainly silence any doubts about our marriage's legitimacy.
“Thank you,” I said sincerely. “For quick thinking.”
His methods were extreme, but effective.
He didn't respond, but something complicated flickered in his eyes.
The atmosphere grew charged again.
“It's late. I should shower,” I mumbled, fleeing to the bathroom.
I practically ran into the bathroom, locked the door, and leaned against it, breathing hard.
My heart hammered against my ribs like it wanted to escape.
I stared at my reflection—flushed cheeks, bright eyes, lips curved in a ridiculous smile—and wanted to slap myself.
Get it together, Eve!
It was just acting! A performance!
You're business partners in a temporary arrangement! When this is over, you'll never see each other again!
I turned the shower to cold, desperately trying to shock some sense into myself.
But the memory of his arms around me, his scent, those eyes that seemed to see right through me—they wouldn't fade, no matter how cold the water.
That night, sleep eluded me once more.
I tossed and turned, replaying the moment he'd swept me into his arms over and over.
I emerged the next morning with raccoon eyes that no concealer could hide.
Luke was already awake.
He stood on the balcony, phone pressed to his ear, speaking quietly.
Still in pajama pants, his tall figure silhouetted against the morning light, he looked like something from a fashion shoot.
He heard me and turned, catching my eye.
Then he spoke into the phone—rapid, fluent words in what sounded like German or Dutch. His tone carried unmistakable authority.
In that moment, he seemed completely different from the man I thought I knew.
He ended the call and studied my face with a slight frown. “Rough night?”
“No, I'm fine,” I lied, self-consciously touching my hair. “Just worked late, that's all.”
He didn't press, but his penetrating look told me he wasn't fooled. He headed to the kitchen without another word.
Soon the smell of eggs and toast filled the apartment.
I sat at the table watching him cook with practiced ease, that strange feeling returning to my chest.
Who was this man, really?
He could cook, fix appliances, navigate social situations with ease, speak foreign languages fluently…
Everything about him contradicted the image of a struggling waiter from the slums.
But I didn't dare ask.
I feared that questioning would shatter whatever fragile equilibrium we'd established.
Breakfast was quieter than usual.
By unspoken agreement, neither of us mentioned the previous night's events.
After eating, I prepared to leave for work.
I was at the door, hand on the knob, when he called out.
“Wait.”
I turned, puzzled.
He approached and did something completely unexpected.
With casual intimacy, he straightened my collar, which had gotten twisted in my rush.
His cool fingertips brushed my collarbone, sending a jolt through me.
“Better,” he said, stepping back to examine me with a critical eye. “Have a good day.”
The gesture was so perfectly that of a husband seeing his wife off to work.
My heart raced traitorously.
I fled, practically running out the door.
