Page 15 of The Wedding Fake
“Of course.” He turned the air conditioning up on his side of the car, but was quiet. My stomach turned as I waited for him to say something—anything. “Is it rude that I want to hear some?” he asked finally, turning slightly in his seat. “It’s like finding out you do a cool magic trick. I’m just curious now.”
I swallowed, glancing at him a few times to try and figure out if he was making fun of me, but he didn’t appear to be. His face was relaxed, his eyes dark and sparked with interest.
“The average American eats more than twelve pounds of ice cream per year.”
“Really?” he asked, his head cocking to one side. “I guess that makes sense. I probably eat that much.”
“Not me,” I replied, “but I have more than my share of brownies, compared to the average.”
His brow winged up, amusement written on all of his features. “This is oddly delightful. Pray tell, how many brownies is the average?”
“Little less than five.”
“A little less than five per tray of brownies?” he asked, and I laughed, a big sound that popped the little bubble of anxiety lodged in my chest.
“Pretty sure that’s a total number.”
“In a year?” he asked, incredulous. “I’m not a sugar fiend or anything, but that seems very low. If I’m anywhere near brownies, I’m eating more than four.”
I shrugged, the smile lingering on my lips. “Me too. Maybe most people are avoiding brownies because they’re so good.”
“Maybe,” he agreed, and I relaxed into the natural lull in the conversation, until he said, “But back to our sex life.”
If he saw the brownie-to-sex connection—as in, probably so amazing I’m avoiding it at all costs—he said nothing, and my fingers tightened where they held the wheel. “Right.” I said, measuring my options. “I don’t intend to share any details with people, but I would say we’ve had sex, if someone asked.”
“Claire,” he said, the word sending heat through my body like a sip of whiskey on a cold night, “couples who are having sex behave differently.”
For example, they don’t quiver at the sound of their name on each other’s lips. “They do,” I conceded, frowning.
“We don’t have to, Claire.”
Like there was any possibility I wouldn’t be aware of him all week. What about when he held me to dance at the wedding? What about—oh, shit. “I probably should’ve thought of this earlier, but I’m sure we’ll be sharing a room at my parents’ house. Is that okay with you?” I held my breath, glancing at the clock. We’d been driving for almost forty minutes. It would waste an hour to turn around and take him home now, but I’d still make it to Mom and Dad’s at a reasonable time.
“That’s fine,” he replied, shocking me out of worst-case-scenario planning. “You’ll find I go with the flow.”
Go with the flow? I’d thought he felt the same attraction for me I had for him. There was nothing go with the flow about the thoughts I’d been having this past week. Perhaps it was just the elevator. Maybe he wasn’t as interested as I’d thought.
“I’m kind of the opposite of go with the flow,” I admitted.
“No shit?” he said, and I looked over to find a huge, playful smile on his face.
“Shut up,” I muttered.
“Opposites attract, right?” he said, and I rolled my eyes. I had no idea if he only meant my attraction to him. “I can sleep on the floor,” he offered.
Oh my god. The man thought I was so gone for him I couldn’t hold it together in a shared space? So gone for him I’d make him sleep on a floor for a whole week? “You don’t have to do that. We can share the bed. I’m sure I can handle keeping my hands to myself for a week.” A mean amount of sarcasm dripped from my voice on that last line, as if he were repugnant instead of achingly beautiful.
Hudson chuckled, like he knew that wasn’t true, and I didn’t know whether to feel guilty or annoyed.
Traffic thinned out and I was finally able to accelerate, but Hudson remained quiet. “I feel like I talked the entire time we were in the elevator,” I said. “It’s embarrassing to know almost nothing about you.”
“What do you want to know?” he asked.
Everything. I want to relax into your voice and forget about all the reasons spending time with you this week is insane. “Tell me about your family,” I said, figuring it was a safe topic. His awkward hum told me otherwise. “What’s up?” I asked, the anxiety creeping back in.
“I don’t know how busy this week is for you, but I saw on the map that I’m less than a half hour from my mom’s house, and if I drive four hours without visiting her, she’ll kill me.”
“Oh,” I said, relief coursing through me, as if I’d expected him to reveal he’d murdered his family. He’d mentioned where he grew up—I remembered that, and remembered it had been close to my own hometown—but somehow it had never occurred to me he’d want to visit home. “Of course. It doesn’t matter how busy I am. You can borrow the car one day. I’ll be fine.”