“Are you okay?” He steps into the bathroom, coming over toward me. He lifts his hand, touching my forehead. “Are you not feeling well? You’re flushed.”
“I’m fine,” I rush to say. I wasn’t sick. I was turned on.
“You look stunning.” He drops his hand, his eyes roaming over me.
“Thanks.” I lick my lips and my eyes go to him. “We should go.” I dart around him and out of the bathroom. I grab Abigail’s gift from off my dresser before heading out of my bedroom. Heath follows right behind me until we both make it to the entryway. I find my purse.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks again. I can see real concern on his face.
“Yeah.” I try not to look at him because I’m scared that I’ll keep looking at his mouth. I think I built the kiss up. There is no way it was as good as I remember.
“Look at me,” he orders. I turn my head, my eyes raising to meet his. “What is it?” he pushes.
“Abigail and Con know about us. That this is arranged.” I motion between us.
“Okay.” He shrugs, not seeming to care. Con runs in the same circles as Heath. I thought it might irritate him that he knows.
“I only told Abigail but they are in a real marriage. They love each other and don’t have secrets.” I would never expect Abigail to keep something from her husband. I get it because I long for something like they have.
“Okay,” he says again, opening the front door for me. I can’t tell if he’s mad or not. I hate when he has the stoic look on his face that I can’t read.
“Be nice to them.” I point my finger at him.
He grabs it. “If this was a real marriage you could order me around more easily. Tell me I’d sleep on the couch if I chose to not be nice. That I’d be in the dog house.” He leans down, biting the tip of my finger playfully before he kisses it. Once again, it makes this marriage feel a little more real.
15
Heath
Abigail and Constantine Weathers live in a two-story penthouse overlooking Central Park. It’s a massive space with an equally massive rooftop garden where dinner is currently being served. Orchard’s curled on a large oversized-upholstered chair next to me, her feet tucked underneath her. A large glass of red wine dangles from her fingertips. She’s as comfortable here as she is in our home—maybe even more so. The implication of the visual makes me restless so I shift my focus to the Weatherses. After all, they’re why I came.
To Orchard, this couple represents what real marriage should be. I’ve come to study this so I can pick it apart and apply it to our own situation. I realize it’s not entirely the same. Abigail and Con married for love and I bought Orchard from her father, but those origin stories don’t have to dictate our future. In fact, I refuse to let that happen.
It’s supposed to be a marriage of convenience where each party gets what they want. Her father didn’t go to jail, the shipyards were saved, she went to college and never wants for a thing. I got her. It seemed like a perfect arrangement at the time. Now she’s older and sees things she wants but doesn’t think I can give to her. She’s wrong, but part of that is my fault. I need to figure out how to convince her our marriage can work just as well as anyone else’s.
So far Con hasn’t done anything that I haven’t done for Orchard. He’s attentive, bringing over a throw when Abigail mentioned the evening breeze, but she’s not using the blanket. Instead, it’s tossed over the back of the chair. She has the same red wine as Orchard, which is getting low. When she reaches for the bottle, Con leans forward to grab it before Abigail can and tops off her glass.
“More for you?” He tips the bottle in Orchard’s direction.
I swipe the bottle from his grasp. I can’t be outdone here. I’m trying to prove to Orchard I’m as good a husband as Con. “I’ll pour it for my wife.”
The other man arches his eyebrows at this but doesn’t object. After I top off Orchard’s glass, she murmurs a soft thank you. See, I’ve matched him, although I haven’t gotten her a blanket. I reach over for the blanket. “May I?” I ask Abigail.
“Of course,” she replies.
“No,” says Con at the same time.
We all turn to look at him. The financier’s lips flatten out. “That’s Abby’s blanket.”
“I’m not using it,” she says.
“We have dozens of others.” He snaps his fingers and one of the black suited waiters hovering in the shadows trots forward. “Another blanket,” Con orders.
“If she’s not using it, what’s the point?” I’m starting to get annoyed.