Page 77 of Six Month Wife

I take a sip, then set my glass down. “You told me it wouldn’t be like this.”

He frowns. “Like what?”

“This.” I wave my hand toward the window, as if Paul is still out there lurking behind the hydrangeas. “The scrutiny. The interrogations. The middle-aged estate attorney with a folder thicker than a murder trial, trying to figure out if I’m some gold-digging criminal mastermind.”

Parker sighs and kneads the back of his neck. “Yeah. I didn’t know it’d be this intense either. Hopefully, this is the end of all that, and we run out the clock from here.”

I pause. Then say it before I lose the nerve. “And I’m sorry I snapped at you earlier. In the car.”

He meets my eyes. “Thank you for saying that. I'm sure you had your reasons. I'm sorry I pushed.”

“You didn’t deserve that.” I shift on the couch, suddenly restless. “I got another rejection from my pitch on Saturday.”

His expression changes. “Who did you see on Saturday?”

“Evelyn Thatcher.”

Realization flickers across his face. “Oh, that’s where you were? Doing a pitch?”

I nod. “Big pitch. I saw the writing on the wall when I left, but I was still hanging on to hope she’d see something worth backing. She said Citrine wasn’t a good fit for her portfolio. That it’s not scalable. Which it totally is. She’s tossing out Shark Tank buzzwords to essentially say, ‘Bye, Felicia.’”

“Who is Felicia?”

“Never mind. It’s a saying. I meant I could tell she was saying she wasn’t interested in investing in my line.”

“It means she’s a fool, then,” he says with a straight face. “And possibly delusional.”

I laugh under my breath, but it sticks in my throat. “You think so?”

He doesn’t even blink. “Without a doubt”

His endorsement, even if he's trying to make me feel better, is comforting.

I sip my wine, going over the night again. “It was a mobile ultrasound machine, you said. Nice ad lib, by the way.”

“Nice touch, huh?”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

He cracks a small smile, and for a second, the air between us shifts. It's still heavy, but it's less suffocating.

I lean back against the couch cushion, glass resting on my thigh. “You think Anders is watching all this unfold like The Bachelor?”

He tilts his head. “If he is, we’re the weird off-brand couple no one’s betting on.”

I snort. “Speak for yourself. I’m the fan favorite. People loved a high-strung female. Not.”

Parker raises his glass for a toast. “You'd be my fan favorite.”

I clink mine against his and try not to think about howdeep we’re in. Or, how much deeper it could get if we’re not careful.

There’s a warmth in his gaze as he looks at me, and I'm suddenly self-conscious under the weight of it.

“What?” I ask, raising a brow.

“You’re cute when you’re flustered,” he says with a smirk.

“Flustered?” I snort. “Try getting grilled by a lawyer about your fake marriage while still recovering from a full-blown micromanaging episode.”