Fat Cat Liar

“Lawson, if you embarrass me, there will be no appreciation sex,” I hiss.

He freezes, loosens his grip, and stumbles back, pretending to be hurt. “You wouldn’t do that.”

“I certainly will if you don’t behave.”

He straightens, running his hands down the front of his suit, and flashes me a cocky smile. “You have three hours.”

His eyes now dance with mischief, and I know that he’ll never last. He links our hands, kissing across my knuckles before leading me back inside to our waiting guests. At this point, I don’t even blush anymore at the knowing looks and smirks shooting our way.

When news of my pregnancy and marriage to the architect that designed the world-renowned Palmer Laboratories spread, there were a lot of rumors. It drove Lawson to the point of madness. I took matters into my hands, accepting an interview with a local blogger who contributed to the papers frequently. She came to the penthouse, took pictures, and asked pointed questions I approved beforehand.

I had to become creative when she inquired about my and Lawson’s relationship, but I was prepared. Most of it was a huge exaggeration of the truth, but the article turned out perfect.

Lawson and Dad almost had heart attacks that I allowed a stranger into my home, but the end result was impeccable. To the world, our love story is what fairytales are made of. Only our small group of friends and family know the truth, which is how it will always be.

So, as I introduce Lawson to my clients he hasn’t met, they always mention him sweeping me off my feet. Greyson Lynch is the only exception, since they met so early in our relationship. But, luckily, he’s never brought it up in any of our quarterly appointments.

I have to admit, Lawson does his best, but he barely makes it an hour and a half before discreetly guiding me down a hall away from the crowd.

“What are you doing?”

“We are going somewhere private.”

I tug on his arm, yanking him to a stop. His eyes are liquid and face filled with determination, and I know I can’t change his mind.

“You said I could have three hours.”

He shrugs, unconcerned, and sweeps me off my feet. “I can’t wait any longer.”

“You lied to me?” My attempt at sounding angry is a failure.

“What can I say? I’m a liar. My wife thinks it’s HOT.” He starts moving, keeping his eyes on mine as the noise fades behind us.

I can’t help myself; I start laughing and place my lips on his. “You’re right, Mr. Hall, but I’ve grown to expect nothing less.”