One Hot Fake

I slide into a stool, order a beer and swirl around to get a view of the room. The newly married couple is dancing to one of the slow love songs I once considered cheesy. Now, the words make sense. I’ve discovered that it’s easy to scoff at stuff only because you don’t get it. When you do, everything falls into place.

I scan the room, and when I find Marian, everything in me goes still. My gaze rises to her face, and my heart stops when I find her eyes on me. She stands near the DJ Box, her face lit up by the stage lights. She has a gorgeous wide smile on her face, and my chest expands with pride. My gaze lowers to take in the turquoise lace shift dress hugging her curves in all the right places. My hands itch to rest on her hips.

The couple’s first dance is over. Marian whispers something to the DJ, and the ballad changes to a fast beat. The MC invites everyone to join the couple on the dance floor.

Marian makes the rounds, speaking to people and staff. Half an hour later, she strides across the room to join me at the bar. I’m on my second and last beer by then. She comes straight into my arms, coming to stand between my legs with the confidence of a woman who knows that I’m hers.

She kisses me on the mouth, and I circle her waist with my hands.

“You look stunning,” I tell her.

“You too,” she says. “You make me want to shout to everyone that you’re my husband.”

I chuckle. “I like that.”

“My work is done,” she says. “I could do with a drink. Will you drive?”

“Sure,” I tell her.

“There’s another bar away from the wedding party. Let’s go there,” Marian suggests.

I wrack my brain to see whether I’ve ever met a woman as confident of herself and her sexuality as Marian. Never. Nothing fazes her. Now, she strides across the floor, swaying her hips sexily, as if she owns the world and everything in it.

The other bar is three-quarters full but is quiet, other than the buzz of conversation.

“It’s nice to hear yourself talk,” I tell Marian when we settle at the bar.

Her dress rides up her thighs, and it’s all I can do not to bend over and lick her creamy skin. Marian orders a cabernet, and I ask for a bottle of water.

“This reminds me of the first time we met in Vegas at the bar,” Marian says.

“We didn’t meet at the bar. We met on the airplane,” I remind her.

“I know, but it was at the bar is where I really noticed you,” Marian says with a laugh.

It strokes my ego to know that Marian had liked what she’d seen that evening, and it hadn’t been all caused by alcohol.

“I noticed you when you entered the plane,” I tell her. “The first thing I noted was your scent and your voice. I imagined you whispering dirty things into my ear.”

Marian’s eyes widen. “You did not.”

I laugh. “I swear I did. Welcome to the brains of men. Every man loves a gorgeous woman.”

The bartender places our drinks in front of us.

“Meeting you was the best thing that ever happened to me,” I say and lift my bottle of water for a toast. She takes her wine glass, and we clink glasses. “To a happy and long marriage.”

I see what I think is a shadow of sadness in Marian’s eyes. Before I can comment on it, it’s gone, and she’s grinning. Sometimes, I feel as if I don’t know her.

“How are the plans for the opening coming along?” Marian says after a swig of her wine.

I’m animated as I update her on how far along we are. As always, Marian has a few ideas of her own, which I love to hear. I find it sexy as hell and a turn on that she is interested in talking business.

Marian asks for another glass of wine and then another. Four glasses later, and her eyes are gleaming, and her laughs come more easily.

“Let me ask you something,” she says. “Would you marry me again if we suddenly found ourselves single?”

“Without a second thought,” I tell her. “You’re perfect for me.”

Tears spring to her eyes. She reaches out to cup my face and plant a noisy kiss on my mouth. She excuses herself to go to the bathroom. She’s a little unsteady on her feet, but four glasses of wine are a lot, especially if you’re tired and you haven’t had a proper meal.

I chuckle softly. Marian is funny when she’s tipsy. She returns moments later, and I help her onto the stool.

“Ready to go home?” I ask her.

“Sure, after one more glass of wine. We haven’t been out in a long time,” she says, slurring her words and adopting a serious face as if we’re discussing matters of national importance.