"Declan"—she swallows—"Y…you’re scaring me."
"It’s not what it seems, Solene. There are forces at work here that I need time to sort out. And the fact that we haven’t spent enough time together in the last few months means you’re more inclined to believe the worst of me."
She takes a step back, but I loop my arm about her and haul her to me. "You mean everything to me, Solene. You must know that." I hold her gaze. Will her to look past the words and glean the unsaid that’s hidden between the sentences. That this is not how I wanted things to play out. That this is not how I meant for things to go down.
"I… I don’t know what to believe." She brings up her hands and clutches at the front of my shirt, "Especially when you’re not sharing all of the facts with me."
"The only fact that matters is that we are meant to be together," I insist.
"If that’s the case, why don’t you trust me enough to share everything with me?"
"Because once I tell you, you’re never going to want to look at me again."
She pales. "Declan, please, please tell me what’s happening, because my mind is building all sorts of scenarios right now."
I hold her gaze for another second and memorize the openness of her expression, the beseeching look in her eyes, the thickness of her eyelashes, the little snub nose, the obstinate jut of her chin, the way her lips part slightly, as she searches my face.
"Declan?" she whispers.
I squeeze my eyes shut and when I open them, she must see the resolution in them, for she tightens her grip on my collar. She begins to shake her head, and I know she senses what’s coming even before I say a word. I release her and wrap my fingers around her wrists and tug so her grasp falters. I curl my palms over her much smaller ones, before bringing her fingers to my mouth. I kiss her fingertips then lower her arms and step back.
"She’s my fiancée."
To find out what happens next read Declan and Solene’s second chance fake marriage romance HERE
Read Zara and Hunter’s one night stand, oops pregnancy, romance HERE
Read Isla and Liam’s, fake relationship romance HERE
Read JJ Kane and Lena’s, age gap forbidden romance HERE
Read Summer and Sinclair’s, enemies to lovers romance HERE
Read Michael and Karma’s forced proximity, Mafia romance HERE
Read an excerpt from Summer & Sinclair’s story in The Billionaire’s Fake Wife
Summer
"Slap, slap, kiss, kiss."
"Huh?" I stare up at the bartender.
"Aka, there's a thin line between love and hate." He shakes out the crimson liquid into my glass.
"Nah." I snort. "Why would she allow him to control her, and after he insulted her?"
"It’s the chemistry between them." He lowers his head, "You have to admit that when the man is arrogant and the woman resists, it’s a challenge to both of them, to see who blinks first, huh?"
"Why?" I wave my hand in the air, "Because they hate each other?"
"Because," he chuckles, "the girl in school whose braids I pulled and teased mercilessly, is the one who I—"
"Proposed to?" I huff.
His face lights up. "You get it now?"
Yeah. No. A headache begins to pound at my temples. This crash course in pop psychology is not why I came to my favorite bar in Islington, to meet my best friend, who is—I glance at the face of my phone—thirty minutes late.
I inhale the drink, and his eyebrows rise.
"What?" I glower up at the bartender. "I can barely taste the alcohol. Besides, it’s free drinks at happy hour for women, right?"
"Which ends in precisely" he holds up five fingers, "minutes."
"Oh! Yay!" I mock fist pump. "Time enough for one more, at least."
A hiccough swells my throat and I swallow it back, nod.
One has to do what one has to do… when everything else in the world is going to shit.
A hot sensation stabs behind my eyes; my chest tightens. Is this what people call growing up?
The bartender tips his mixing flask, strains out a fresh batch of the ruby red liquid onto the glass in front of me.
"Salut." I nod my thanks, then toss it back. It hits my stomach and tendrils of fire crawl up my spine, I cough.
My head spins. Warmth sears my chest, spreads to my extremities. I can’t feel my fingers or toes. Good. Almost there. "Top me up."
"You sure?"
"Yes." I square my shoulders and reach for the drink.
"No. She’s had enough."
"What the—?" I pivot on the bar stool.
Indigo eyes bore into me.
Fathomless. Black at the bottom, the intensity in their depths grips me. He swoops out his arm, grabs the glass and holds it up. Thick fingers dwarf the glass. Tapered at the edges. The nails short and buff. All the better to grab you with. I gulp.
"Like what you see?"
I flush, peer up into his face.
Hard cheekbones, hollows under them, and a tiny scar that slashes at his left eyebrow. How did he get that? Not that I care. My gaze slides to his mouth. Thin upper lip, a lower lip that is full and cushioned. Pouty with a hint of bad boy. Oh! My toes curl. My thighs clench.
The corner of his mouth kicks up. Asshole.
Bet he thinks life is one big smug-fest. I glower, reach for my glass, and he holds it up and out of my reach.
I scowl. "Gimme that."
He shakes his head.
"That’s my drink."
"Not anymore." He shoves my glass at the bartender. "Water for her. Get me a whiskey, neat."
I splutter, then reach for my drink again. The barstool tips in his direction. This is when I fall against him, and my breasts slam into his hard chest, sculpted planes with layers upon layers of muscle that ripple and writhe as he turns aside, flattens himself against the bar. The floor rises up to meet me.
What the actual hell?
I twist my torso at the last second and my butt connects with the surface. Ow!
The breath rushes out of me. My hair swirls around my face. I scramble for purchase, and my knee connects with his leg.
"Watch it." He steps around, stands in front of me.
"You stepped aside?" I splutter. "You let me fall?"
"Hmph."
I tilt my chin back, all the way back, look up the expanse of muscled thigh that stretches the silken material of his suit. What is he wearing? Could any suit fit a man with such precision? Hand crafted on Saville Row, no doubt. I glance at the bulge that tents the fabric between his legs. Oh! I blink.
Look away, look away. I hold out my arm. He'll help me up at least, won't he?
He glances at my palm, then turns away. No, he didn't do that, no way.
A glass of amber liquid appears in front of him. He lifts the tumbler to his sculpted mouth.
His throat moves, strong tendons flexing. He tilts his head back, and the column of his neck moves as he swallows. Dark hair covers his chin—it's a discordant chord in that clean-cut profile, I shiver. He would scrape that rough skin down my core. He'd mark my inner thighs, lick my core, thrust his tongue inside my melting channel and drink from my pussy. Oh! God. Goosebumps rise on my skin.