Page 35 of Faking the Pass

The Best Way To Handle Things

R osie

Our final few days on the island passed in a blur of sex and sun and saltwater.

Between the pool, the ocean, and the bedroom, we were basically never dressed. And I wasn’t complaining.

But it was all about to come to an end. I found myself wishing we could stay here forever. Which was bad.

This was why I’d resisted sleeping with Presley in the first place.

On our final day before going home, we abandoned the swimming thing altogether and basically stayed in bed all day. It was raining anyway—the first time we’d seen rain since arriving here.

It felt oddly appropriate. The sound of rainfall on the metal roof was almost like applause at the end of a great show.

It couldn’t last forever, but you’d enjoyed the hell out of it while it lasted, and you were glad you bought the ticket.

We lay in bed, listening to the storm, the rain lashing the windows and sliding glass door, the occasional rumble of thunder.

The windows on one side of the bedroom were protected by an overhang, and they were open. A cool, moist breeze stirred the curtains, lifting and floating them like languid flags.

I inhaled deeply. I loved the scent of rain.

It had always made me feel restful, like there was nothing I needed to do, nowhere I had to be.

It also made me feel just the tiniest bit sad, but in a good way, like the perfect ending of a book you’d loved and didn’t want to leave.

So fitting for this day.

Just as I drew in another deep breath to savor it, Presley spoke, his voice rumbling beneath my cheek on his chest.

“That’s my favorite smell in the world. As a kid when I’d see it starting to rain, I’d always run outside.”

He chuckled. “My mom would fuss at me for getting all wet and tracking water into the house.”

Though I stayed quiet and still, my heart had taken off like a sprinter. Now it was running laps around my chest so fast I was almost dizzy.

I’d never known anyone else who shared that particular scent preference.

Most people, if asked, would say their favorite smell was something like baking bread or flowers or name some cologne or perfume.

Presley had just described the exact same scenario that had occurred countless times throughout my own childhood. What were the odds?

It scared me a little.

“I like it too,” I said softly.

And I like you. Too much.

It was a good thing we were leaving tomorrow. Any more of this, and I’d have been falling for him.

Hard.

That was the last thing I needed to do.

There was no way this thing with Presley—whatever it had become during our stay on the island—was going to last.

No matter how good it felt right now.

No matter how loudly my instincts were screaming that this was something special.

I’d already seen where trusting my gut got me. It had led me into the screwed up situation with Randy.

Before that, my instincts had told me that Presley had liked me as much in high school as I’d liked him. Wrong there, too.

Clearly, my internal compass was broken. From now on, I would be following a trusty roadmap.

And it did not lead to Presley Lowe, no matter what kind of “high school fantasies” he might have had about sex with me. Clearly they’d expired pretty quickly and he’d moved on to another subject to fantasize about.

As if trying to prove me wrong, he ran a hand down my back, tracing lazy patterns on my bare skin with his fingers.

“Your skin is so soft,” he whispered, and just like that, I was turned on again. I wanted him on top of me, inside of me. I wanted to hold him with every part of my body.

His other hand stroked the arm I had slung over his waist then coasted over my shoulder, down my side, and moved to cup my breast.

His thumb prodded the nipple gently, and the fire he’d kindled in me an astounding number of times in the past few days, sparked and came to new life.

That map of mine? It was in serious jeopardy of being incinerated. But right now, I didn’t care.

While we were alone here together, I had no chance of resisting him, so I didn’t even try.

I lifted my face, so our mouths could meet and begin the dance that always led to ecstasy.

As our tongues tangled, Presley let out a sensual groan that reached down inside me and poured gasoline on that fire. I pulled him on top of me with a desperation that would be embarrassing if I couldn’t tell he was just as desperate for me.

I had a feeling he wouldn’t mind extending our fake-marriage-with-benefits arrangement beyond the honeymoon—at least for a while until he got tired of me.

But I couldn’t allow it. Not when I felt like this about him.

Which was why as soon as we touched ground in Rhode Island, this was over. We’d go back to separate beds and mostly separate lives.

No matter how difficult it would be to fight the pull I felt toward him—sexually and emotionally—I had to do it.

That way when the inevitable end arrived, I’d at least have a chance of surviving it.

Presley didn’t make it easy.

When we landed at the airport in Eastport Bay and walked from the terminal to his car, he slung his arm around me and planted a kiss on the top of my head the way he’d done so many times on the island .

It was a warm, affectionate gesture that would have been natural between a real newlywed couple returning from their honeymoon.

But that wasn’t us.

I shrugged away from the now-familiar and far too tempting physical contact. Presley slid me a sideways glance, his brows drawing together, but he said nothing.

When we arrived at his house, the paparazzi were waiting, once again lining the street, though in fewer numbers than before.

“Damn,” I breathed. “Someone at the airport must have tipped them off.”

“Don’t worry about it. This is a good thing,” Presley said.

He smiled at the cameras crowding invasively close to his car window.

“This time we want them hanging around, right?” he said. “To support the story.”

As we waited for the automatic gate to open completely so we could pull into the drive, I made an effort to smile and look like a happy newlywed for the cameras on my side of the car.

“I guess you’re right. I just have this automatic visceral reaction whenever I see them. Every muscle in my body tenses up.”

“I know a cure for that.”

Presley’s tone was dirty, and it set off a sweet heat curling low in my abdomen.

Though the gate had opened, he didn’t drive forward. Instead, he slid a hand around the back of my neck and pulled me in for a kiss.

It was completely unexpected, but my traitorous body got right with the program.

As usual, my insides turned molten, and that heat in my abdomen was now an inferno. The ache between my legs longed for his touch, throbbing in demand.

I should have stopped him.

We were home now. We couldn’t keep acting like we were still on our honeymoon.

But I couldn’t exactly push him away with the paparazzi watching.

He ended the kiss and drove down the crushed seashell drive and into the garage while my heart rate—and my girl parts—attempted to settle enough for me to think straight again.

Once we got inside the house, I said, “We need to talk.”

Presley immediately went to the fridge, no doubt ravenous, though we’d eaten on the plane. His appetite was insatiable.

Both appetites actually.

I probably should have been grateful he hadn’t thrown me over his shoulder and carried me straight to his bedroom the moment we stepped over the threshold.

That would only have made this harder.

Also, part of me really, really wished he would.

“Yeah, I guess we should plan some outings for photo ops,” he said as he pulled things out and set them on the counter, oblivious to my internal tug-of-war game.

“That way they’ll stop parking on the street out there, driving my neighbors crazy. What should we do first? Skinny dipping in the cove?”

The naughty gleam in his eye dimmed when he looked up and saw my face.

“What’s the matter?”

“I didn’t mean about the photographers,” I said. “Yes, of course we should go out and give them a chance to see us doing stuff together, looking married or whatever. I’m talking about in the house.”

Presley’s expression was all solicitous concern. “You want to change something about the house? We can do that. I’ve got a friend who’s a contractor.”

He seemed to be purposely misunderstanding me. Wasn’t “we need to talk” a universal relationship alarm bell?

“The house is fine,” I said. “Better than fine—I love the house. I just… after what happened in the car back there, I want to make sure there’s no… misunderstanding about what’s happening here.”

He watched the back and forth hand gesture I made between our bodies, his eyes growing darker.

“Okay…” He dragged out the word. “And what is happening here?”

I stared down at my fingers twisting together on the countertop.

“Well, you know… the contract. The no-sex part. We added the clause allowing it while we were on the island, but now we’re… not.”

Presley shook his head as if in disbelief.

“That wasn’t a contract, Rosie. It was a few lines in a notebook. Obviously it meant nothing.”

“Well it meant something to me,” I said, instantly defensive. “And you agreed to it.”

“No, you laid down the law,” he said, “and I went along with it—reluctantly—because you insisted on it. And then you changed it.”

I nodded and blew out a long breath. This was awful. He was clearly angry.

“Yes, because of the situation, and because… well, it doesn’t matter because I told you it was a temporary clause—a hall pass—that we’d go back to separate sleeping arrangements when we got home. And now we’re home.”

The vein in his temple pulsed, and his eyes were fiery.

“So you’re telling me that because of a few scribbles in a journal, I’m not allowed to have sex? Or kiss my wife ?”

Why was he acting this way? Was he really going to make me spell it all out—again?

“Not just because of the contract.”

I shouldn’t have had to explain this to him. He knew as well as I did what this arrangement was.

“Because it’s the best way to handle things,” I said. “Until the court hearing is over and we dissolve our marriage.”

The look Presley gave me was searing.

“And you think we’ll be fine living in the same house day after day platonically ? After what happened on the island?”

“I will,” I lied.

“Right. Because you ‘don't feel that way’ about me,” he snapped.

Unable to make my mouth confirm the lie, I just stared at him helplessly.

His eyelids flared then narrowed. He continued to stare at me for another few seconds, then he put the food he’d taken out back into the refrigerator, slammed the door, and walked toward the stairway leading to his gym.

“I’m going to work out.”

“Don’t you need to eat first?”

“I’ve lost my appetite,” he growled over his shoulder and stomped up the stairs.

Over the next two weeks, we went on strategic daily outings together—sunset beach walks, dinners at the Cliffhouse and several other Eastport Bay restaurants, a show at the Providence Performing Arts Center, a dinner cruise around Eastport Bay.

The paparazzi were there of course, following us everywhere we went, and that was what we wanted— supposedly.

Whenever they were around, Presley made a point of touching me, always keeping a hand on my back or shoulder, kissing me for the benefit of the cameras.

Nothing too salacious but enough to get my heart racing—and cause an ache lower down.

In private, we were living mostly separate lives.

Wednesday through Saturday Presley went in for team meetings and stayed to work with Dylan and the other backup quarterback on the field.

When he was home, he acted surly, communicating in grunts and short phrases.

Clearly he was angry with me. I guessed I’d have been angry, too, if someone had taken away my sex life against my will.

Truth be told, my body was filing complaints with the brain department daily . Many times I’d scolded myself for that hall pass amendment.

If we’d never slept together on the island, I wouldn’t have known what I was missing. And maybe Presley wouldn’t have been such a grump now.

Hopefully after a few weeks of these public performances, the celebrity press would tire of us and we could drop the act.

Maybe when they stopped watching us like hawks, I could even move out and get my own place.

I didn’t know how much more of this I could take.

The idea of being sued in civil court wasn’t exactly thrilling, but I almost wished they’d go ahead and set the new court date so we could get it all over with.

Presley would just have to find another human shield to protect him from the groupies and wanna be girlfriends.

Maybe I should encourage him to get one?

If he could be discreet enough about it, that might be a solution to meeting the physical needs I was no longer attending to.

The logical thought caused a roiling of nausea in my stomach and my brain to go dark and cloudy.

Anyway, that wouldn’t work. She might not be discreet.

If anyone were to get wind of it—if that woman, whoever she was, couldn’t keep her mouth shut—our marriage lie would be exposed and this whole thing would have been for nothing.

No, I’d just have to hope for a quick trial—or for Randy to decide to drop the suit. Which was as likely as him telling people his real last name.

Either way, I just hoped it happened soon.