Like You Love Me (Honey Creek 1)

She grabs a towel and begins to wipe off the counter. Her motions are rougher than necessary. I have half a notion to take it out of her hands so she’ll focus on what I’m saying, but I don’t because I think that will incense her.

Instead, I watch her work this out. She bites her bottom lip and polishes the counter until the rag squeaks as it crosses the laminate. The longer she takes to say something, the more my stomach begins to twist.

“This is insane,” she says finally. “Do you know that?”

“Yes. I’m very aware.”

Her head falls to the side. “What would I get out of pretending to be your wife again?”

“You’d actually be my wife,” I point out carefully.

She tosses the towel down. “Why? Remind me.”

“I can’t risk any weaknesses in this plan. It has to be rock solid and real. I’m trying to prove to Montgomery that I’m the best, sturdiest, most committed guy for the job, and I can’t do that if anything looks suspicious. And,” I add, “if he finds out that I’m now unemployed, this could be my saving grace.”

“I hate that it makes sense.”

“And even more important to you is that you’ll get out of your tax bind scot-free, and you’ll be able to get on my health insurance plan. Legal antibiotics,” I say with a wink.

“I was joking about the antibiotics. You know that.”

I take a few steps so that we’re closer. Her eyes are wary as she tilts her head back and looks up at me.

“If you don’t like this, if you have any reservations at all, we’re done here,” I tell her. “No pressure. Just say the word and I’ll drop it, and you’ll never hear about it again.”

Her lip pops free. “How long would we have to keep up the charade? Because I don’t want to be married to you forever. I might find The One.”

“I don’t know.”

“Ballpark it, Doc.”

I think fast. “At least until I get the job. Once I’m settled in, we could get divorced or have it annulled.”

“So six weeks, maybe?”

“Probably. Not long. I’ll go to Orlando, and we’ll say you’re staying here to try to sell the business. After a few weeks, we can say it won’t sell or you can’t part with it—whatever you want to say. Then we’ll just tell everyone that we decided to part amicably.”

“Yeah. I’m not moving from here. This is my home. Period.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to leave.”

“Well, you kind of expect me to marry you, it seems, so how do I know where the line is?”

I laugh. “Fair point.”

She walks toward the refrigerator and piles her hair on top of her head. An elastic appears from out of thin air, and she winds it around the ball before turning to face me.

Her features are smoother. The glossiness in her eyes from the wine has waned. She takes a deep breath.

“You know, I find it hilarious that you wouldn’t give me a prescription because it was ethically wrong, but you’d propose a marriage of convenience.”

“Unlawful dispensing of medication is a major offense. Marrying a woman that willingly agrees to the union is not.”

“Whatever.”

She steps away and walks around the island.

Goose bumps break out across my skin. Outside, the full moon holds court over the stars. A breeze from the open window flutters the edges of the curtains.

I run a hand down my face. A nervous energy tears through me, and I have to dig deep to override the instinct to start rushing through things. It’s a trick I learned in veterinary school—how to focus on what’s in front of you and take things a step at a time.

She takes in a long, whooshing breath. “So you would cover half of the property taxes?”

“I would cover them all.”

Her head shakes back and forth. “No. I feel weird about that. But if you could pitch in for half, I could scrounge up the other half, and that really would change a lot of things for me.” She clears her throat. “It’d save the Honey House, and that’s all I really care about.”

“That’s no problem,” I say. “I actually insist on paying them all. It only seems fair.”

She considers this. “Okay. Thank you. But should I feel bad about this? I mean, is this a form of prostitution?”

I know she’s being serious, and I know, too, that I should take this seriously. But . . . I’m me. So I smirk.

“Are you planning on sleeping with me?” I ask.

“No!”

“Then I don’t see how it’s prostitution.” I step behind the island to adjust myself. The thought of her naked, no matter how brief of a moment it was, is enough to make me hard. “Being dead serious, is it really any different from having a second job? You don’t have to do anything other than pretend like you love me for a couple of weeks.”