The Convenient Wife

He drags his mouth slowly across the outside of my ear, causing goosebumps to jump across my skin like a rock across water. Bouncing over the surface, they reach places no one can see, until they hit my toes and disappear.

“Hello.” A deep and raspy man’s voice cuts into my brain, breaking the spell Bolt has on my body. “Bolt…There’s a smile in his tone, a pleasant and happy smile. “It’s about time you got here. I thought I would have seen you weeks ago.”

Turning, I see an older man with his arms out, his face cut in similar angles to Bolt. His head is shiny, his brows are gray, and he’s wearing the same frown lines Bolt gets when he’s upset or frustrated.

His father. He has to be his father.

My heart jumps into my throat, and a wave of heat turns my stomach. That man has an aura that commands the room. He’s approaching us in a well-tailored Armani suit, with expensive shoes to match. His eyes are sternly on Bolt, but they seem to take notice of everything else around him.

Without looking, I know he sees Yale and the bellhop, he sees the clerk at the front desk and finally me at Bolt’s side.

Gliding his hands down the front of his chest, he flaps his suit open wide, only to guide it back into place. Holding his head high, he reaches his arm back and pulls a woman to his side.

Where the hell was she hiding?

The woman touches his wrist softly as her eyes settle on us and she smiles. Her silver hair is pulled up into a tight bun, and she’s wearing a flowy sundress that reaches her ankles. She looks like she’s trying to fit in with the laid back Hawaiian theme, but her heavy jewelry and thick gold bracelets are making her stand out against the crowd.

“Dad, Mom,” Bolt lets go of my hand and walks to them, embracing each one.

His mother holds his arm, and her smile is perfect. She looks so happy to see him, and he looks genuinely happy to see both of them. They talk for a minute a few feet away while I stand quietly in the background letting them.

My hands are starting to sweat, so I rub them up and down my thighs. I can feel my anxiety start to rise as their eyes flick to me, then back to Bolt, then back to me. The room around us fades, and it begins to feel like we’re the only ones standing in the lobby.

Their eyes suck the air out of my lungs, leaving me weak, unable to inhale a decent pull of oxygen or swallow the lump in my throat.

“Mom, Dad, I want you to meet someone.” Bolt turns to me and takes my hand, pulling me into his family circle. “This is Starla. . .” His parents are all smiles and bright eyes, their expressions welcoming and warm. Then two single words come out of his mouth, and everything about them seems to change. “My wife.”

His mother’s eyes roll up and down my body, examining me, my clothes, my shoes, the fact I’m not wearing a bra. . . She looks embarrassed for me, like I’m making a fool of myself and I’m too blind to see it.

“Your what?” his mother asks, holding a hand to her chest as her jaw falls open in shock.

“My wife.” Bolt says it without pause, louder and more defined as he pulls me closer, and wraps his arm around my waist. “We met a couple months ago, and I just knew, I knew it immediately. I wanted to marry her.” He grins at me, his eyes staring deep into mine. “Star, this is my father Vincent, and my mother Claudette.”

Holding out my hand, my voice comes out crackly and flat. “It’s so nice to meet you both.” They shake my hand, but reluctantly, barely touching it at all. Nervously, I glance around the room. “This place, this place is the shit, seriously, it’s gorgeous.” Even as I say it, I want to stop myself, but can’t.

The shit? What the hell is that?

My nerves are shining, taking center stage and making me sound like an idiot. Which is the last thing I want. I want to make a good impression, but his parents are a lot more intimidating than I expected.

His father pulls his hand away and wipes it down the side of his hip. “I guess you’re right, it is—the shit—I suppose.” His voice wavers for a moment, full of disappointment.

Why did I say that?

“Excuse me, sorry to interrupt, Mr. Sheckler, but would it be all right if the butler just brings your bags to your room?”

“We have a butler? Damn, I’ve never had a butler before.”

“Oh yeah?” his father asks, quirking a brow.