Fake Marriage Box Set

I could give her anything she desired, but that thought made my heart twist hard. That's something my father had tried to do with my mother. When it didn't work, he covered up the failure with alcohol, and things only got worse.

Maybe this was Corsica, rich or poor, I hoped.

She swatted away my father's hand when he tried to add a few herbs to the sauce she was cooking. "I don't care how sophisticated your palate is; if you screw up my mother's recipe, I'll toss this whole pot in the ocean," Corsica said.

My father laughed, and I hated to admit I liked the sound. Instead, I sauntered into the kitchen and leaned over Corsica's shoulder. "Looks good, but not nearly as good as this outfit you're wearing."

She elbowed me in the ribs. "Quit teasing me. I'm living out of a suitcase."

"If you won't let me help with the cooking, then I'll just go pick a wine," Xavier said.

I nuzzled her neck long after my father had left the kitchen. "I wasn't putting on a show for him," I said, lips still tracing along her shoulder. "You look wonderful."

"I've been wearing one of three dresses this whole time. I might need to go shopping while we're here." Corsica shied away from my continued kisses.

"No," I said, wondering if she expected me to pay for a spree. "I think it's just you. You look more elegant when you're relaxed."

Corsica shook her head, unwilling to accept the compliment. "How can I relax when your father's been critiquing each step of this recipe and you're distracting me? Do you really want burned sauce?"

I laughed and caught her hand. "I don't care if we have to throw the whole dinner out. What's this wonderful song?"

Her cheeks colored as I pulled her into a slow dance. We swayed, pressed close together in the kitchen until my father returned.

He put the bottle of wine down on the counter and made no move to give us privacy. "I can play this song," he said, and then his phone rang. "I promise I'll play it again for you later, but I have to take this call."

"That's too bad," Corsica said as my father promptly disappeared. "Why can't he, of all people, just take the night off?"

I shrugged. "He likes working, and God knows it's the only thing he does well."

"He plays piano really well."

I let Corsica return to the stove to stir her sauce. "I remember one time my father made me go with him to a charity event. I had to wear a white suit. Xavier picked it out, of course, because no one else but my father would think to put a seven-year-old in a white suit."

"You must have looked so sweet," Corsica smiled.

I grimaced. "Who knows? All I could think was that I was being tortured. It was a really fancy event, but the caterers took pity on me and brought me a bowl of spaghetti."

Her lips curled up in a smile. "Your father let you eat spaghetti in a white suit?"

"No," I said. "He had left me at our table an hour before that, some conference call or something. I was mad and hungry, so I dug in. By the time he returned, I looked like something out of a horror film. He was so angry; we left right then and there. I went to stay with my mother that weekend."

"So, you don't like nice clothes," Corsica said with a shrug. "When I was seven, all I wanted was a new dress for Easter. My father said no, and it almost broke my heart. Then, my mother found me daydreaming over an old lace tablecloth we had. In the morning, the tablecloth was gone, and I had a beautiful dress complete with embroidered rosebuds. It was perfect."

"Sounds like you were Cinderella," I said.

Corsica's eyes drifted away. "I thought I was, too, until we went to church. My father had been drinking already, and he told everyone how I got such a pretty dress. I think he was trying to compliment my mother, but all the kids made fun of me the entire day."

I froze. "Your father drank, too?"

She turned to the stove and took her time tasting the sauce. "Your father is really serious about his sobriety. You should give him a chance."

My voice was harsher than I intended. "You have no idea what he's really like. This, all of this, is just an act. He was always charming, always so interested in everyone, and always so loving. Then, I realized that was just the secret of his success. Underneath it, the part that drinking revealed, he's petty and jealous and mean."

"That wasn't just the alcohol?" Her eyes were shadowed, strained.

"If I believed that, then I would have to believe my mother was b

eaten just by accident. And, I'm sorry. I just can't look at all those times he sent her across the room with a slap and think that it wasn't really him."