Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 124971 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 625(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 124971 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 625(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
“You’re being a bully,” I seethed, scrubbing my fingers unnecessarily hard.
“You’re being unreasonable,” he clapped back. When I finished washing my hands, he clasped my wrist and tugged me to my room. “Now, get packing.”
“What’s the hurry?” I buried my heels in the floor, refusing to budge.
“Just wanting to get this sham marriage over with, and what better way than to finally meet the bride’s family?”
“You didn’t seem so eager to be done with me yesterday, when we shared a bed,” I said conversationally.
Riggs sneered. “First of all, it was a shower, and second, don’t confuse fucking with romance.”
We stopped in my room. I turned around. We were both panting hard.
“Riggs.” I used my shaking hands to pull my hair back. “You’re scaring me. What’s happening?”
“Look, I’m feeling very confined right now. I haven’t been outside of this goddamn state in over a month. I’m growing antsy, and this was the one trip I could write off as legitimate in Emmett’s eyes. A honeymoon. And since I can’t take you anywhere else because of your visa application, I thought you’d enjoy seeing your family.”
I felt selfish and completely self-absorbed. Of course he felt claustrophobic. Never before had he stayed in one place for so long. He was only here because we needed to pretend. And I hadn’t seen my family in so long. So bloody long, and my heart squeezed at the thought of hugging them again. Charlie could wait for one weekend. It wasn’t ideal, but Riggs’s world was about to detonate, and he deserved one last happy weekend.
“I’ll pack a bag right now.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
RIGGS
Emmett: Getting claustrophobic yet?
Riggs: New York is a big place.
Emmett: Not big enough for your brand of issues.
Riggs: I didn’t know you moonlight as a shrink. There is just no limit to the things you can do without talent, is there?
Emmett: Did you pay her to marry you?
Riggs: Are you listening to yourself?
Emmett: Well, did you?
Riggs: Goodbye, E.
I wasn’t claustrophobic.
Of course staying in the same place sucked, but it had nothing to do with why I’d booked Duffy and me two tickets to the English capital, and had Zimmerman use all her pull at the USCIS to issue Duffy an emergency travel document.
No, this had everything to do with Cocksucker’s forest of flowers and his text message that he was on his way to New York. If he was heading to the Big Apple, I was going to drag Duffy out of it. Simple fucking math. Two could play this game.
I felt zero guilt over getting rid of the flowers without telling her. He owed her an engagement, loyalty, and about ten thousand orgasms. I’d given her everything he hadn’t in the weeks we were together. And still, to her, he was a better prospect than me.
The worst part, though, was that Duffy fought me tooth and nail. She probably wanted to stay in New York and wait for that cheating scumbag.
Now, as we made our way to JFK in an Uber (YES, Cocksucker, YOU CAN TAKE A FUCKING UBER TO THE AIRPORT), I tried not to think about how all I was doing was postponing the inevitable. Soon enough, my wife was going to reunite with the moron who’d left her. Soon, he was going to skim his lips over her delectable curves. Bite her neck where I had just bitten her last night. Grab her by the hip bones as he plowed into her from behind.
And you care because . . . ?
Things got worse when we got to JFK. The terminal was jam packed with holidaymakers trying to get home, carrying the worst type of travelers—children. The lines were long. The flight-departure boards flickered on and off due to electricity shortages because of the heat wave, and drunken tourists crashed into Duffy, accidentally spilling beer all over her dress.
By the time we passed TSA, we were both agitated, thirsty, and really fucking late. Blame it on Duffy taking two and a half years to pack for one weekend.
There was nothing remotely romantic about the entire trip so far. Not that I was shooting for it, but it’d be nice not to hold the worldwide record for shittiest honeymoon on earth.
It was bad enough that Kieran and I had had to fake his impending death to put her on that flight. A secret we agreed to keep between us.
“I forgot how hellish traveling is for the poor,” Duffy moaned, pressing her forehead against my shoulder as we trekked through the moving walkway. “BJ and I used to travel business. It was one of the perks of being with the arsehole.”
“Suck it up, buttercup.” I quickened my pace, not wanting us to miss the flight. She struggled to keep up, because of course, she had to wear pumps to a red-eye.
As per Murphy’s Law, our gate was on the edge of the fucking universe. About five miles by foot from the TSA point. We ran, shouldering past the thick crowd of travelers, rushing past duty-free shops, the time slipping between our fingers.