Page 38 of Real Fake Husband
Still smirking, Cal asks, “For how long?”
“The rest of our time together.”
He rubs his chin as he thinks it over. I find myself wondering how his stubble would feel gliding across my skin while he moves down my body.
“Interesting,” he says. “I feel like a simple kiss is worth less than a few weeks on that stupid couch.”
“Then you’ll have no problem moving your boots. Besides, it’s easy for you to say that when you haven’t slept on the couch.”
“Fair point. But in that case, I demand arealkiss. Not a simple one. Not a peck. Akiss. With tongue. Lots of tongue. Full make-out session.” He holds out his hand. “Shake on it.”
Sure, why not?
He’s not gonna win.
What else do I have to lose?
At the very least, he’ll stop leaving his stupid boots in the way. I shake his hand, and without warning, he pulls me in close.
“Game on, Josie.”
My heart speeds up, and I slip my hand out of his. “Let the best man—or woman—win.”
I pivot on my heel and head to the bathroom, knowing my bath is going to be on the cooler side tonight—but deep down, I know better. Who am I kidding?
I’m screwed.
16
JOSIE
I’m about to tuck myself in on my couch when I realize I’ve forgotten to get my clean uniform out of the bedroom. I usually try to get it before I go to bed so I don’t have to wake Cal up in the morning when I’m getting ready.
Well, hell.
Hopefully, he’s asleep already and I can sneak in, grab what I need, and get out.
Easing myself off the couch, I quietly make my way down the hall.
Under the door, I can see that the light is still on, and I knock softly.
“Cal, you awake?”
I hear nothing, and when I test the doorknob, it isn’t locked. I knock again, a little louder this time.
Nothing.
Certain that he’s asleep, I quietly poke my head in.
Okay, I admit, now I’m being nosy. But only a little bit.
The room is bathed in soft light, and Cal is out cold in the middle of the bed. I notice how neat and tidy he keeps his side table, really the whole room. There’s only what appears to be a thick, shiny business-oriented motorcycle magazine next to the clock,Revved Upor something. His phone lies next to his hand as though he passed out without meaning to. He’s shirtless, with the comforter wrapped around his waist, his muscled legs sticking out the bottom. He’s facing away from the door, but even without looking at his face, I know he’s fast asleep by the soft rise and fall of his tattooed chest. His image is one of utter relaxation and comfort.
Inspiration strikes hard and fast.
I have to sketch him. This will be the sweetest revenge ever. Tit for tat. Callum Ashford captured for eternity by the woman whose drawing he burned as a child. Yes!
Quickly, I tiptoe back to the living room, dodging the squeaky parts of the floor like some deranged creativity-driven ninja. I dump my bag out onto the floor and grab my sketchbook and a pencil.