Page 49 of Heart Breaker

“It looks suspicious.”

“After last night, I’d say your judgment is questionable.”

Her mouth falls open, offended, while I stir the drink and slide it toward her. I wink, fighting a smile. “Drink your juice.”

Still muttering under her breath, she takes a reluctant sip before pausing, then another. “Oh,” she says quietly. “That’s actually really good.”

“I know, and you’re going to thank me for it once it kicks in and you start feeling better.”

I plate the food a few minutes later, setting eggs, toast, bacon, and fruit in front of her along with a steaming mug.

Her tired eyes lift immediately as she inhales. “Chamomile tea?”

“You said it helps when you don’t feel good.”

She looks surprised. “You remembered that?”

I lean back against the counter, folding my arms loosely across my chest. “Of course I remember, Lottie. I told you I was going to try harder, and that’s what I’m doing.”

For a second, she just looks at me over the steam curling from the mug, her cheeks still flushed from the hangover, and I have the sudden overwhelming urge to walk over there, pull her onto my lap, and kiss her until neither of us remembers our own names. Instead, I drag my attention back to the kitchen before my brain fully betrays me because the problem is, I’m not thinking about breakfast anymore.

I’m thinking about her.

About the way she looked at me last night.

About her curled against my chest in bed.

About the fact that sometime around one in the morning she’d sleepily grabbed onto my hand and whispered, “Don’t leave.” That nearly ruined me.

“You know,” she says slowly, sipping her tea while watching me carefully, “most people wear shirts while cooking.”

I look down at myself—bare chest, white socks, and a pair of athletic shorts I threw on— before looking back at her. “Most people don’t look this good without one.”

A laugh bursts out of her, but then she groans dramatically and drops her head into one hand. “Bossy Pilot Ken Doll, you’re so smug.”

“Do you blame me? You’ve been staring at me all morning.”

Her face grows even pinker, and it’s absolutely worth it. I watch her pick at her toast for another second before something settles into place in my head so suddenly it almost makes me laugh. I’m sitting here taking care of my hungover fake wife while she wears my shirt. I’m not sure how this became my life, but I’m enjoying it. I think I want more of this.

Lottie notices the shift in my expression as that realization hits me square in the chest. “Why do you suddenly look like you have an idea?”

I push away from the counter slowly, walking toward the island until I am standing directly across from her. “Because I do.”

Suspicion flashes across her face instantly.

“I want to take my wife on a date.”

Five minutes after Lottie disappears upstairs to attempt to get dressed, I decide I need to get out of here. Being around her this morning has felt dangerously close to torture.

Between drinking with her in my kitchen last night and waking up with her curled against my chest this morning, I’ve started to want things that I absolutely shouldn’t. I blame the way she looks at me like I’m someone safe to lean on. Lottie has this way of making me feel needed without ever asking for anything, and I don’t know what to do with that. So, I do the only thing that feels remotely smart right now. I grab Scout’s leash and leave before I completely lose my head and march upstairs to fuck my wife senseless.

The cold ocean air should help. It usually does. Walking Scout has always been the easiest way to clear my head after long flights or bad days or nights where my thoughts feel too loud to sit with. This morning, every thought circles right back to her. Specifically, the look on her face after I told her I wanted to take her on a date.

Lottie had looked at me like I’d gone temporarily insane.

“Wes, I know I’m hungover, but I’m pretty sure we’re already married. You don’t need to date me.”

Fair enough. But still, I meant it. In the past twenty-four hours, something shifted in me, and now I can’t stop thinking about taking her out on a date. A real date. Not for the cameras or the arrangement or because Victoria thinks it’ll help the story we’re selling.