Page 2 of Eager Housewife

“Nae bother,” I assure him, and amusement sparks in his eyes from me using the Scottish phrase I picked up from him and Ainsley.

“Tissues—” He gestures vaguely to his desk.

“I’ve got it.”

Mr Blackwood flashes me a grateful smile that basically sets my knickers on fire—good thing there’s water around—and is out of the door and striding down the corridor to talk to his daughter before I can so much as swoon from him being so scorching hot.

I inhale a deep, shaky breath as though the smoke from my burning knickers is making me oxygen deprived. His office smells like him, of a woodsy scent, with pine and charcoal, mixed with fresh mountain air. For the first time, I approach his desk and go around it. My heart drums with how intimate it feels to be in his private space.

The water has splashed over the carpet and his enormous black leather chair, but the glass is undamaged. I bend to pick it up, and pause as I see his computer. The screen is on, a document showing. At the bottom the cursor blinks, as though he’s just stopped typing.

Position available: marriage of convenience

Seeking wife for a London mafia boss to accompany her husband to formal events, homemaking (cooking and cleaning optional, fully staffed household), make a family, etc.

Children compulsory, no contraception.

Luxury accommodation, million-a-year expenses, and lifelong security.

Must laugh at husband’s jokes, be around 5’4”, brunette, blue eyes. Would prefer if the applicant could get along with my young-adult daughter.

No emotional attachment.

A fake marriage. Don’t expect love.

Free use. No knickers to be worn.

My eyes bulge out of my head as I read. Then read it again, and again.

The kingpin of Blackstone is advertising for awife.

He’s been a single father for the time I’ve known him, and Ainsley says she can’t really remember her mother. It’s always been her and her dad, and she’s never mentioned any women in his life. Not girlfriends or even casual companions. And now he wants a marriage of convenience.

I could do that. The realisation lights a fuse in me.

I want it so badly my chest feels like it might explode. I keep flitting around between all the details, every one more exciting than the last.

Children. Oh my god I’d love Mr Blackstone’s babies so much.

Free use. I’ve heard that on social media. It means he’d be at liberty to use me however he wanted, whenever he wanted. The idea should horrify me. He’s twice my age, and my best friend’s dad. But it doesn’t. Not even slightly. Heat blooms between my legs, revealing how not justnotdisgusted I am. I’m turned on.

The thought that I could be in this house going about my life, and Mr Blackstone would just come up behind me, push my skirt up, unzip himself and bend me over the nearest surface without so much as a “please”?

The idea shimmers over my skin.

Other things are attractive too, of course. I need a place to live. I love homemaking and I’d be proud to be on Mr Blackstone’s arm at any event he chose.

And the physical description. That’s… Me. Exactly. I’m five-four. I always keep my hair tied back, but it is brown. I’m not pretty though, certainly no match for Mr Blackstone with his rugged good looks and sharp suits. My nose is snub, and my face is kinda oval and boring. But my eyes are pale blue, and I get along with Ainsley.

I am the perfect applicant.

Except for the obvious and prohibitive issue: Ainsley is my bestie and Mr Blackstone is almost twice my age.

* * *

At the airport departure gate, Mr Blackstone and I stand side-by-side and watch Ainsley all the way until she’s out of sight. Through security. Off on her adventure to Europe.

Any second, Mr Blackstone is going to leave. I’ll be alone, homeless, without my best friend, and the man I love more than anything in the world will be married—conveniently—to another girl, who looks like me.