Читать книгу: «Red-Hot Honeymoon: The Honeymoon Arrangement / Marriage in Name Only? / The Honeymoon That Wasn't», страница 2

‘I haven’t slept with anyone for about five, maybe six months,’ she admitted quietly.

Rowan instantly looked apologetic. ‘Sorry, honey, I didn’t mean to sound judgemental. Teasing, maybe—judgy, no.’ Rowan waited a beat before speaking again. ‘Why not, Cal? You like men and men like you.’

Callie wished she could answer her but she couldn’t—not really. Like her avoiding the party scene and her occasional dissatisfaction with her job there was no reason—nothing she could put her finger on. She just hadn’t met anyone lately whom she wanted in her bed … in her body. Nobody she liked enough to make the effort.

She just couldn’t put her finger on why, and she was getting a bit tired of her self-imposed celibacy. She liked sex—she needed sex.

‘I genuinely don’t know, Ro. It just hasn’t happened lately and I refuse to force it.’ Callie shrugged before sitting up straight and putting a smile of her face. ‘Anyway, it’s not the end of the world. I’ll find someone sooner or later who I’ll want to tumble with. In the meantime I have a great, interesting life.’

Rowan bit her lip—a sure sign that she was about to say something that Callie might not like.

‘Is it possible that your life is too great?’

‘Huh? What?’ Callie wrinkled her nose, puzzled.

‘Your life is so busy, so crazy, and you are so virulently independent—do you have any room in it for a man? A lover? Someone who might be something more than a temporary arrangement? Can it be, darling Cal, that you’re too self-sufficient and busy for your own good? Or is it a defence mechanism?’

Okay, had Rowan acquired a psychology degree along with her engagement ring? What was this all about?

‘What is wrong with you? I came out for a drink—not to be analysed.’

Rowan pulled a face. ‘We both had screwed-up childhoods, Cal. My parents and their inability to see me—your mum leaving when you were a little girl. Our push-the-envelope crazy antics got worse and worse the older we got and ended up with you writing off your car when you were eighteen. I landed in jail shortly afterwards.’

‘Just for a weekend.’

‘That was long enough. That was a hell of year, wasn’t it?’ Rowan shook her head at the memory.

It had been a hell of a year, indeed, Callie agreed silently.

‘After both incidents we … settled down, I suppose. We’re so much better adults than we were kids,’ Rowan continued.

‘Speak for yourself,’ Callie muttered. All she knew for sure was that she’d felt more alive when she was a kid and a wild teenager than she did now. Right now she just felt … blah. Not brittle—just blah. As if she was a cardboard cut-out of herself.

Rowan sent her a quick, worried look. ‘While we’re on the subject of your mother, I need to tell you that …’

They were on the subject of her mother? Since when? And, oh, hell no—they were not going to go there. Not tonight, not tomorrow, not ever. Her mother was long, long gone and not worth wasting time and energy discussing. They most certainly were not on this subject and would never be …

Good try, Ro.

Callie quickly shook her head. ‘Don’t.’

Rowan held her stare and Callie knew that she was debating whether to get pushy and pursue the topic. Luckily Rowan’s mobile rang and she scooped it up off the table. Judging by the soft look on her face, she quickly deduced that it was her brother Seb on the other end, cooing into her ear. She genuinely loved the fact that Seb and Rowan were so unabashedly happy, but their sappiness frequently made her feel queasy.

She couldn’t imagine acting like that—being so intertwined, so in tune with another person. It just wasn’t her.

Callie looked up when a hand touched her shoulder and saw Jim, the owner of the bar, smiling down at her. He bent to kiss one cheek and then the other, and when he was done she allowed his big fingers to hold her chin.

‘Where have you been, hun?’

‘Here and there.’

‘We’ve missed you,’ Jim stated.

Callie grinned. ‘You’ve missed me starting tequila shooter competitions which invariably turn into massive parties which lead to your till feeling very full at the end of the evening.’

‘That too.’ Jim dropped his hand and tipped his head, his expression enquiring. ‘Listen, I’ve got guys at the bar wanting to buy you a drink. You up for company or must I tell them you’re not interested?’

Callie didn’t bother looking at the bar. She just wanted to talk to Rowan and, if she was lucky, say hi to Finn Banning again. She shook her head. ‘I’m not in the mood, Jim—and, besides, I told Rowan that I’d keep a low profile tonight and behave myself.’

‘Why do I suspect that that is very difficult for you to do?’

Callie heard the deep, dark voice and whipped her head around to look up and into Finn’s face. Tired, she thought, but still oh, so sexy. Purple shadows were painted beneath his eyes and his face looked drawn and thinner. His back and shoulders were taut with tension and his mouth was a slash in his face. She wanted to kiss him and cuddle him at the same time. And she thought that he needed the cuddling a lot more than he needed the kissing.

The last couple of days had clearly put him through the wringer. Experiencing that kind of pain, Callie thought, being that miserable, was why she never got emotionally involved. She’d experienced emotional devastation once before and it wasn’t something she ever wanted to deal with again.

However, despite looking like a love refugee, he still looked good. Sage and white striped shirt over faded blue jeans and flat-soled boots. Curls that looked wild from, she guessed, fingers constantly being shoved into them, and a four-day beard. Tough, hard, stoic—and more than a smidgeon miserable.

Yeah, there was that tingle, that bounce in her heart’s step, the womb-clench and the slowly bubbling blood. This was what pure attraction—lust—felt like, she remembered. This crazy, want-to-lick-you-silly feeling she’d been missing.

Jim melted away and Finn looked at her with those sexy light eyes. She felt her face flush, her breath hitch.

Sexy, hot, sad man. What she wouldn’t do to make him smile—she needed to make him smile.

‘Now, why would you think that?’ Callie asked him, projecting as much innocence as she could.

He slapped his hands on his hips and narrowed his eyes at her and she hoped he couldn’t tell that her heart was thumping in excitement. He pulled his lips up into a smile which tried but didn’t quite make it to his eyes.

‘The passage to the bathroom facilities is covered in framed photographs of the parties that have happened here. Not so strangely, you are in most of them—front and centre. Oh, yeah, you’re just trouble looking for a place to happen.’

Callie batted her eyelashes at him, her eyes inviting him to laugh with her … at her. ‘My daddy told me that talent shouldn’t ever be wasted.’

‘Your daddy is probably on Prozac.’ The smile lifted higher and brushed his eyes.

Progress, she thought.

He shook his head, bemused. ‘Trouble. With a capital T. In flashing neon lights.’

Callie left Rowan and Finn discussing the dissolution of all his wedding plans—his eyes had gone back to being flat and miserable, dammit!—and went to sit on a small table on the outside deck, overlooking the harbour. On the mountain behind her lights from the expensive houses twinkled and a cool breeze skittered over the sea, raising goosebumps on her bare arms.

She tucked herself into her favourite corner, out of sight of the bar patrons, and put her feet up on the railing. The sea swished below her feet.

The noise from the bar had increased in volume and, as Finn had observed earlier, usually she’d be in the thick of the action—calling for shots, cranking up the music, and dancing … on the floor, on a bar stool or on the bar itself.

Nobody could ever call her a wallflower, and if they had to then she’d be an exotic one—climbing the wall with her brightly coloured petals and holding a loud hailer.

Where had she gone, that perfect party girl, loud and fearless? She’d cultivated the persona after the car accident—after she’d made a promise to her father and brother to pull herself away from the edge of destruction. It was the only way she’d been able to find the attention she’d craved and she’d got it—especially from men.

She got a lot of attention from men. Apparently it was because, as a previous lover had once told her, men felt good when they were with her: stronger, bolder, more alpha.

Whatever.

But Rowan was wrong. She didn’t need a man in her life. Her life was fine—perfect, almost. She had absolutely nothing to complain about. She loved her life, loved her job, the world was her oyster and her pearl and the whole damn treasure chest. She liked her life, liked being alone, being independent, answerable only to herself. Her life was super-shiny. It didn’t need additional enhancement.

Besides, as she had learned along the way, to a lot of the men she dated she was a prize to be conquered, a body to possess, a will to be bent. They loved the thrill of the chase and then, because, she didn’t do anything but casual, they ended up getting competitive—thought they could be the one to get her to settle down, to commit. That they were ‘the man’—had the goods, the bigger set of balls.

They tried to get her to play the role of lover or girlfriend and she always refused. And when their attention became a bit too pointed—when they showed the first signs of jealousy and possessiveness—she backed off. All the way off.

She’d never met a man she couldn’t live without, couldn’t leave behind. And if she ever had the slightest inkling that she might feel something deeper for someone she was dating she called it quits. She told him that her life was too hectic, too crazy for a relationship, and that wasn’t a lie. It just wasn’t the whole truth.

She always left before she could be left. It was that simple and that complicated.

Thanks, Mother.

Callie rubbed her forehead with her fingertips, noticing that a headache that was brewing. Too much thinking, Callie. Maybe you do need a good party after all.

A brief touch on her shoulder had her jumping and she whirled around. Finn. She put her hand on her heart and managed a smile.

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you—you were miles away.’ He held a beer bottle loosely in his hand; his other was in the pocket of his jeans. He had a couple of masculine leather and bead bracelets on one wrist and a high-tech watch on the other.

‘Hi.’ Callie waved him to an empty chair at her table and looked past him into the restaurant. ‘Where’s Rowan?’

‘She met someone she knew at the bar.’ Finn yanked the chair out and sat down, stretching his longs legs out in front of him. ‘You okay?’

‘Shouldn’t I be asking that of you?’ Callie replied. She leaned forward and asked softly, gently, ‘What happened with your fiancée?’

Pain flickered in and out of his eyes. ‘You are the nosiest woman I’ve ever met,’ he complained, after taking a long pull of his beer.

‘I am—but that doesn’t mean I’m not deeply sorry that it happened. Besides, men usually love talking about themselves,’ Callie replied.

‘Not this one,’ Finn replied.

Okay. Back off now, Hollis. Give him some space. ‘Can Rowan help you sort out the mess of cancelling the wedding?’

‘Luckily, she can. I was just going through the final non-arrangements with her; people are sympathetic but they still need to be paid. Understandable, since pretty much everything that needed to be ordered has already been ordered.’

‘I bet Rowan refused to be paid,’ Callie said on a small smile. ‘She has a heart as big as the sun.’

Finn nodded. ‘She did, but she will be—just like everyone else. It’s not her fault that things went pear-shaped.’

Pear-shaped? Callie lifted her eyebrows in surprise. Pretty tame word for being jilted. ‘So, what happened?’ she probed again. Yeah, she was nosy—but this man needed to talk … he needed a friend. Who wouldn’t, in his situation? She might be nosy but she could also be a damn good listener.

Finn shook his head. ‘I know that you use your eyes as weapons of interrogation, but I’m not going to go there with you.’

Fair enough, Callie thought. He had a right to his secrets. She just hoped that he had someone to talk to—to work this through with.

Finn rolled his head in an effort to release some of the tension in his shoulders. He tapped his index finger against his thigh. ‘I can tell you that my biggest hassle is that I landed a pretty sweet gig—writing articles about the best honeymoon destinations in Southern Africa. Liz and I were going to spend three weeks travelling … a few days at each destination. My publisher is not going to be happy that I’m doing it solo.’

Callie leaned forward and made a performance of batting her eyelashes. ‘Take me—I’ll be your substitute wife.’

Finn managed a small grin. ‘I’m violently allergic to the word “wife”—even a pretend one.’

‘Well, at least you’d be miserable in comfort.’

‘If I end up keeping the assignment—which I very well might not.’ Finn ran his hands over his short hair and blew out his breath. ‘So, tell me why you’re sitting here in the dark instead of causing chaos in the bar?’

Callie could clearly see that he’d closed the door on any further discussion about his non-wedding. She looked down into her drink and wrinkled her nose. ‘I’m not in the mood to be …’

‘Hit on all night?’

‘That too. And someone walked in about fifteen minutes ago who I kind of said I might call. We made plans to have supper, then I had to fly to Milan on short notice—’

‘Fashion-buying emergency?’

Callie lifted her nose at him in response to his gentle sarcasm. ‘Something like that. And I lost his number, and I’m …’

‘Not that interested any more?’

She bit her lip. ‘Yeah. Not that interested.’ She looked out across the ocean to the silver moon that hung low in the sky. She saw the craters, picked out the shape of the rabbit, and sighed.

When she dropped her head her eyes met Finn’s and impulsively she reached out and tangled her fingers in his. She ignored the flash of heat, the rocketing attraction. It wasn’t the time or the place.

‘I’m sorry you’re hurting. I’m so sorry for whatever happened that’s put such sadness in your eyes.’

Finn licked his lips before staring at the ocean. ‘Well, it’s not rocket science. I was supposed to be getting married in less than two weeks.’

Callie shook her head, knowing that whatever it was that had mashed up his heart it was more than just losing his ex. ‘I think that getting over her will be a lot easier than getting over whatever else has happened.’

Finn’s eyes widened and she was surprised when he managed a low, harsh chuckle. He picked at the label on his bottle, not meeting her eyes. ‘We changed our minds, decided that marriage wasn’t what we wanted—that’s all that happened.’

No, it wasn’t. But Callie wasn’t going to argue with him. ‘Well, I am so, so sorry—because it’s hurt you badly.’

And for some strange reason the thought of you being hurt makes me feel physically ill.

Finn stood up abruptly and Callie turned to see Rowan approaching them. Finn surprised her when he bent down and kissed her cheek, taking a moment to whisper in her ear.

‘Callie, you are part witch and part angel and all sexy. I’m leaving before I say or do anything stupid around you.’

Callie inhaled his aftershave and couldn’t help rubbing her cheek against his stubble. ‘Like …?’

‘Like suggesting that you come home with me.’

His comment wasn’t unexpected, and she knew men well enough to know that he was looking for a distraction—a way to step out of the nightmare he was currently experiencing.

Ah, dammit! She wanted to say yes, but she wasn’t going to be any man’s panacea for pain—even one as sexy as this. If they slept together she wanted it to be because he wanted her beyond all reason and not just to dull the pain, to forget, to step outside his life.

She had to be sensible and she forced the words out. ‘Sorry, Finn, that’s really not a good idea.’

Finn raked his hand through his hair. ‘I know …’He held her eyes and shrugged. ‘I really do know. Rowan, hi—I was just leaving …’

CHAPTER TWO

A HALF HOUR LATER Finn tossed down the keys to his house and stared at the coffee-coloured tiles beneath his feet for a moment. Blowing air into his cheeks, he walked through the hall and down the passage to the kitchen, yanked open the double-door fridge and pulled out a beer.

Looking over to the open-plan couch area, he saw the pillow and sheet he’d left on the oatmeal-coloured couch. He’d spent the last few nights on that couch, not sleeping. He couldn’t sleep in the bedroom—and not only because he no longer had a mattress on the bed.

Finn rubbed his forehead with the base of the cold bottle, hoping to dispel the permanent headache that had lodged in his brain since last week. Tuesday.

Along with the headache, the same horror film ran on the big screen in his mind …

God, there had been so much blood. As long as he lived he’d remember that bright red puddle on the sheets, Liz grunting beside him, as white as a sheet. He remembered calling for an ambulance and that it had seemed to take for ever to come, remembered Liz sobbing, more blood. The white walls of the hospital, the worried face of the obstetrician. Being told that they had to get Liz into surgery to make sure they didn’t lose her too.

It had taken a while for that statement to make sense, and when it had pain had ricocheted through his body and stopped at his heart. Their baby was gone. He also remembered their final conversation as he’d perched on a chair next to her bed, knowing that she was awake but not wanting to talk to him.

‘I lost the baby,’ she’d said eventually.

‘Yeah. I’m so sorry.’

Liz had shrugged, her eyes sunken in her face. ‘I feel … empty.’ She’d turned her head to look at the flowers he’d bought for her in the hospital gift shop. ‘I want to go home, Finn.’

‘The doctors say in a day or two. They want to keep an eye on you. You lost a lot of blood. Then I’ll take you home.’

Liz shook her head. ‘I want to go home—back to Durban, to my folks. We didn’t tell anyone I was pregnant so I don’t need to explain.’

She fiddled with the tape holding a drip into her vein. When she wouldn’t look at him—at all—he knew what she was about to say.

‘I don’t want to get married any more. We’ve lost the reason we were both prepared to risk it. We loved the baby but we don’t love each other—not enough to get married.’

He rubbed his hands over his face. ‘God, Liz. Why don’t we take some time to think about that?’

‘We don’t have time, Finn. And you know that I’m right. If I hadn’t fallen pregnant we would’ve split. You know it and I know it.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Me too.’ Liz looked at him then, finally, with pain and sadness and, yes, relief vying for control of her expression. ‘Can you cancel the wedding? Sort out the house?’

‘Sure.’ It was the least he could do.

‘And, Finn? I don’t want anyone to know that I lost the baby. Just say that we called it quits, okay?’

Now, four days later, he was sad and confused and, to add hydrochloric acid to an open wound, stuck with all the bills for a wedding that wouldn’t happen.

Finn wrestled with the dodgy lock of the door that led out to the balcony and stepped out onto the huge outdoor area. He loved this house—mostly for the tremendous view. From most rooms he had endless views of False Bay, the wildness of the Peninsular, the rocking, rolling Atlantic Ocean. Out here on the balcony he felt he could breathe.

Liz loved the house too, and because she’d spent more time here than he had it seemed as if it was more hers than his. His name might be on the mortgage agreement, but she’d furnished and decorated the place—filled it with the things that made it a home. He supposed that he’d have to go through the place and pack up her stuff—which was pretty much everything. The house would be empty. But to him it felt mostly empty anyway.

They’d tried so hard to play the part of a happy family, but innate honesty had him admitting that, while he was devastated at the loss of their child, he wasn’t heartbroken about the wedding being called off. Losing Liz didn’t feel like something that had derailed his world, and shouldn’t it? Shouldn’t he be feeling—more? More pain? More confusion? More broken-hearted?

Instead of mourning the loss of his lover he was mourning not being able to hold his child, not being a dad. Although most of his and Liz’s conversations lately had revolved around the wedding, they had obviously talked about the birth. They’d been excited—well, he’d been excited, Liz had been less so. They’d talked about what type of birth she wanted, had tossed a couple of names around, and he’d been in the process of moving his gym equipment from the third bedroom to the garage so that they could use the room as a nursery.

He felt lousy—as if his world had been tipped upside down. Was it crazy to feel so crap over losing a half-formed, half-baked person to whom he’d contributed DNA but whom he’d never met? Was this normal? Was his grief reasonable? God, he just didn’t know.

And how much of his grief was over the baby and how much of it was the residue of the pain he felt about losing James? It felt as if his heart was wrapped in a dull, grey, icy, soggy blanket. The only time he’d felt as if it had lifted—even a little bit—was earlier this evening, when he’d been talking to Callie. For some reason that crazy flirt had managed to lift his spirits. It had been a brief respite and one he’d badly needed.

Finn drank again, leaned his forearms on the railing and stared hard at his feet. He knew that most people thought that because he was a travel journalist that he was a free spirit—that he was a laid-back type of individual—but nothing could be further from the truth. He was a Third Dan black belt in Taekwondo, held a black belt in Jiu-jitsu and, like the other two, his Krav Maga also demanded immense amounts of control and discipline.

But no amount of control, self-discipline or philosophising could rationalise this pain away. Because he’d tried. He really had.

He needed time, he decided—a lot of it—to sort out his head and his heart. Time to think through all he’d recently lost. His baby, his dreams of a family, even his stepdad. He needed time to get back on his feet, to make solid decisions, to work through the emotion of the last couple of weeks, months, years.

And even though he’d been so tempted to ask Callie to come home with him—sleeping with her would have been the perfect way to step out of his head—he knew that he needed to be alone for a while, to keep women at a distance, to work through what had gone wrong with Liz and how.

Ten days, he told himself, and he would be on a plane to Kruger National Park for the first leg of his Southern Africa trip. Ten days and he could get some distance from this house, from the memory of the blood, Liz’s ashen face, from the craziness of cancelling the wedding. Ten days and he would have an excuse to avoid all the calls from his friends and family. He wouldn’t have to open the door to any of his three brothers who were taking turns to check up on him, making sure that he was okay.

Finn sighed. Ten more days. A part of him wished he was hiring a kitted-out Land Rover with rooftop tents and heading out into wild, crazy Africa. But visiting upmarket honeymoon destinations wouldn’t be a kick in the pants either.

As Callie had said, there was something to be said for licking his wounds in luxury.

If he actually got to keep the job.

The travel magazine had forked out a shedload of cash, and some of the hotels had sponsored his stay in exchange for an honest review of their honeymoon experience. He would be writing the story but he was supposed to take his wife’s opinions into consideration as he did so … except now he didn’t have a wife to take.

He had to talk to Mike, his editor—and sooner rather than later.

Tomorrow Rowan would send out a blanket email to the wedding guests on his behalf and Mike, as a guest, would receive said email and soon put two and two together. Finn scrunched up his face, annoyed that he hadn’t contacted Mike sooner. Cape Town was a small city and he might even have heard already.

Finn glanced at his watch. Ten-thirty. A bit late to call, but that couldn’t be helped. He pulled his mobile from his pocket and looked up Mike’s number, sighing as he pushed the green button.

‘I wondered when you’d get around to calling me,’ Mike answered without any preamble.

Finn rubbed his forehead. ‘Yeah, it’s been a bit mad. I presume you’ve heard that the wedding is off?’

‘Yeah. Sorry.’

Finn heard Mike clearing his throat and jumped in before he could speak again.

‘I’d still like to do the assignment.’

‘It’s a bit pointless without a wife,’ Mike said.

‘Can’t I leave the honeymoon bit out and just write on the lodges themselves?’

‘It’s scheduled to be part of the honeymoon issue, Finn, with honeymoon and wedding advertising. The article has to concentrate on the honeymoon aspect.’

Finn swore.

Mike’s voice in his ear sounded worried and frustrated. ‘Tell me about it. I’m in a Catch-22 situation. The publisher agreed to foot the bill, as did many of the hotels, because you were writing the article. One of the world’s best adventure and travel journalists writing on honeymoons. They loved the idea. And the promo people have already started working on the edition. You’re part of that.’

Finn swore again.

‘ Take me—I’ll be your substitute wife.’

He almost smiled, remembering Callie’s words from earlier.

Wait, hold on … What had she said?

‘ Take me—I’ll be your substitute wife.’

Could that possibly be a solution? Taking Callie or someone else with him?

‘Can I take someone else?’ he asked Mike.

Mike’s long pause strained Finn’s patience. ‘I don’t see why not,’ he said eventually. ‘It’s not like anyone is going to ask for your wedding certificate or proof that you’re married. The two of you would just need to be seen to be having fun. Enjoying the experience. Got anyone in mind?’

He did, actually. Someone who was vivacious, charming, loud, flirtatious, possibly crazy. ‘Yeah, I do.’

‘Is she someone I know?’ Mike asked slyly.

‘Judging by the way she talks to everyone and anyone, you probably do.’

‘Who is she?’

‘Let me talk to her first and see if her coming with me is an option,’ Finn said, cautious.

Instinctively he knew that taking Callie—inviting Callie—would be a very good move for him. He’d get to keep this plum assignment and he’d have the company of someone who was a bundle of fun. On that flight back from New York they hadn’t stopped talking, and Finn could see why men dropped their tongues to the floor around her. She had a surfer’s body—broad shoulders, toned arms, flat stomach and that long, curly blonde hair. But when you looked past the body and face to the brain beyond it you got the shock of your life—because the woman was bright, knowledgeable, and as sharp as a spear-tip.

At her core, she had a lust for life that was contagious. And best of all—unless something had radically changed recently—she had absolutely no interest in relationships and commitment and would be an entertaining companion. She’d be distracting enough to keep him from feeling too sorry for himself.

‘Well, talk to her and come back to me. And if you don’t take her you’ll have to take someone else to complete the assignment,’ Mike told him before disconnecting.

Finn slapped his mobile in his hand, considering all his options. He tried to be honest with himself. He had to admit that he was attracted to Callie. If they were spending time in close proximity to each other—he didn’t think that honeymoon suites came with twin beds—he’d want to sleep with her. Hell, he wanted to sleep with her now. So sue him. His heart might be battered and bruised, but his junk was in perfectly good working order.

So sleep with her. It’s not like you haven’t had flings before. She could be your rebound girl—your way to get over and through this bleak time.

She wouldn’t say yes …

How do you know unless you try?

Finn, thinking he might be going off his head, scrolled through his contacts on his mobile. Rowan would have her number and after sweet talking her out, he had Callie’s mobile number. Taking a deep breath, he pushed the green phone icon.

‘Hey, how do you feel about being my fake wife?’

The next morning Callie rushed around her apartment, trying to get ready. It was crazy that when she was travelling for work she was super-organised but when she was back home all her wheels fell off. This morning wasn’t the first time she’d forgotten to set her alarm, and now she was late for work. So she’d be late? She worked long enough and hard enough that nobody would make a fuss.

Callie pulled a pale yellow dress over her head and scrambled in her cupboards for the pair of nude sandals she wanted to wear with it. Finding them eventually—she really needed to clean out her overflowing cupboards—she smiled as she remembered the very odd conversation she’d had with Finn last night about being his fake wife.

She’d always thought that the ‘wife for hire’ premise in romance novels was odd, because she couldn’t conceive of a situation in the twenty-first century when a fake wife would ever be needed.

But gorgeous Finn needed a wife. She was sorry that she couldn’t help him out, but thanks to the eye-watering mortgage she paid each month on this flat, her job—even when she wasn’t crazy about it—always came first. Which was a shame, because she could totally see herself swanning around five-star resorts, drinking cocktails and snuggling up to her husband’s hot bod—fake … real … who cared?