It has been one week since Megan moved in. One week since our fake wedding that’s also legally real. One week since our lips touched.

She has settled in nicely at the apartment I share with Penny. I’m getting used to the new dynamics.

Penny and I leave early in the morning, so we may not see Megan at the beginning of the day. On the mornings that I do see her in the sweatpants and old T-shirt that she wears to sleep, though, it makes the start of my day so much better.

I have to admit she makes me not want to leave the apartment. I just want to drag her back to bed so I can tear those loose clothes off her tight little body. I want to claim her while Penny’s away at school so she’d be free to scream out my name as I make her come.

It’s so fucking stupid. How desperate can I be, that I’m not even able to separate what’s real and what’s fake anymore?

Despite what legal records may show, we’re nothing more than boss and employee. Which means I need to maintain a good relationship with her—one that doesn’t turn romantic, even if she probably can’t sue me for workplace harassment anymore, seeing as we’re legally a married couple now.

I have to admit, reminding myself of what we are—and what we are not—gets harder by the day.

Every night, when I come home, Megan is waiting.

She was quiet and awkward the first couple of days, but then it’s like a hard outer shell around her is cracking. She starts to smile more, and she asks questions that show she listens when Penny and I tell her about our day.

I know this is only pretend, but it’s fucking hard to remember that sometimes. She just fits into our lives so easily.

And it doesn’t help that she’s so tantalizingly sexy.

I want her. I realized that when we first kissed at our fake wedding.

But despite my desires and my justifications, in the moments when I’m thinking clearly, I know it would be crazy for us to get together for real.

It would hurt our business relationship irreparably, for starters. If—when we inevitably break up, she’ll hate my guts like exes usually do, even though I’ll need her cooperation indefinitely. Even after our staged divorce, I’ll need her to help maintain my public image—that’s the reason we got legally married in the first place.

Sure, Lana has prepared various clauses in the contract to make sure Megan doesn’t screw me over. She also seems like a good person. But there’s always the possibility of her hating me so much she’d ruin everything out of mere spite, with no regard for the consequences.

And don’t get me started on how it would hurt Penny if we got together and then broke up at a later date. It’s already confusing enough for her that Megan is a fake step-mom who actually lives with us.

I don’t want to complicate our situation any further. That said, I don’t know if I can just say no to her, knowing that she wants me, too.

Oh yeah, I may be out of practice, but I can still recognize when a woman wants me in her bed.

I can tell from the way she steals glances at me, only to avert her gaze abruptly when I catch her in the act. Or from the way she fidgets when she knows I’m checking her out—she has a few nervous habits, like biting her bottom lip and tucking her hair behind her right ear. Or, at times when I get close enough to make her breathe a little deeper, she sometimes tenses her thighs, pulling them closer together.

If I had no responsibilities, I wouldn’t even think twice about going full caveman on her and dragging her to my cave so I could give her the bone in my pants.

But I have Hunter Corporation, and I have Penny. I can’t be reckless.

Don’t be reckless. That’s what I’ve been telling myself.

And yet I’ve already gone overboard for our date tonight.

With Penny away at a sleepover, I thought it would be a good idea for us to make our first public appearance. Eliza agreed, and even suggested a place where we would definitely get some attention from the paparazzi.

But Eliza didn’t ask me to do all the other stuff.

Like specifically asking for the most romantic table at the restaurant, for example. Or buying her an expensive black dress, as well as the pearl jewelry that my personal shopper told me would make her feel like Audrey Hepburn.

I didn’t even ask her if she already had the right outfit for the occasion. I just felt like getting her something—just because.

Ugh, I disgust myself.

But when Megan’s door opens and she steps out in the new black dress, I know I did the right thing. I don’t remember what Audrey Hepburn looks like—I’d have to Google her to jog my memory—but if she’s half as captivating as my fake wife tonight, she must’ve been a stunner.

“How do I look?” Megan asks as she bites her bottom lip—one of the few signs she’s nervous. It makes me wonder if she’s nervous about the public appearance, of if she’s nervous about spending some alone time with me.  

“Wow,” I say when I recover after having the wind knocked out of me from the sight.

“Do I look okay?” Megan asks.

Somehow, she seems oblivious to the fact that she looks like a million dollars. I don’t know how that’s possible.

The structured black dress shows off her curves perfectly and the pearl necklace frames her lovely face. It’s amazing what a good fashion stylist can come up with, even without having met Megan in person. All I did was show the stylist a picture.

Megan herself has a great sense of style and I know she can pick out her own dress. But there’s something appealing about the idea of choosing an article of clothing to wrap her body in a pleasing way for my enjoyment.

“Okay? You’ll turn heads at the restaurant,” I say honestly. I don’t like the idea of other men staring at Megan, but I’ll get to show her off as mine. She’ll be coming as my wife, and nobody will dare put a finger on her.

Her cheeks grow red, which I find to be adorable. I love knowing exactly what she’s feeling. At a time like this, her face is like a forecast program that tells me everything I need to know. But there are times when it seems a mask has descended over her expression, making it impossible for me to read.

I get up from the couch. There’s nobody else in the apartment, and I wish we could stay home so I could peel off that dress she has just put on.

But duty calls. It’s time for us to let photographers catch us together so they could put our pictures all over the gossip magazines. That will trigger Melanie, the journalist from The Times, to reveal our big secret. And then we’ll end up in various other publications that spread the news far and wide.

“Shall we?” I ask as I hold out one arm toward Megan.

She takes it, and I realize her hand is cold.

“Nervous?” I ask as we walk toward the elevator door. I press the button.

“A little bit,” she says. “I’ve never been… I’ve never had people taking my pictures to publish.”

“It’s okay. You won’t even feel a thing, I promise you.”

Megan’s full lips form a smile, but her muscles remain tense. Her hand on my bicep makes me crave skin-on-skin contact.

The elevator opens to show a couple already inside. It’s the heir to Holt Bank and his pretty, blonde wife. They seem to be in the middle of an argument.

“It just doesn’t make any sense, Piper. Seth and Alice have a huge wine cellar in their basement,” he says.

“It’s not about what they already have, Rafe. It’s just what you’re supposed to do when you go to a dinner party,” she says. She’s holding a bottle of wine, which I assume is the thing they’re arguing about.

I glance sideways at Megan. I remember how excited she got when I told her he lived in the building.

Sure enough, her jaw has slackened. She has apparently forgotten about her anxiety.

“You know they're going to appreciate the gesture, which is all that matters,” the blonde says, seemingly unable to hold her tongue anymore as the elevator takes us down.

“Or they'll hate it and it’ll collect dust in the corner. You know they're very particular about their food and drinks,” he says.

The couple stops their heated conversation when they realize we’re joining them in this small, enclosed space. We nod at each other. I know who they are, and they probably know who I am. But like most neighbors in the city, we don’t actually know one another.

The wife shoots us an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, my husband is annoyed that I went to the liquor store even though I’m pregnant. I wasn't planning on drinking, but after his lecture, I might need it.”

He looks horrified. He opens his mouth to say, “You—”

“Just kidding, Rafe,” she says in a flat, annoyed tone. Laughing, she tells us, “He’s been weird since he found out I’m pregnant.”

“I understand that,” I say, who else she’s been telling about her pregnancy. Maybe I shouldn’t be too quick to blame Paul for leaking the information to the media. “But it’s hard being a father-to-be as well. I wouldn't be too hard on him if I were you.”

“Oh, you guys have kids?” she asks.

“Well, uh, I do. And she does, too, now,” I say awkwardly.

I don't know why I said it like that, except that I’m caught off guard. I know we’re supposed to put on a show tonight, but I wasn’t ready to be questioned in the fucking elevator of my own apartment building.

It's not like they care if who’s biologically related to my daughter. Hell, they don’t even know my daughter. They're just making small talk.

I glance at Megan, who has just been quietly watching from the sidelines without joining the conversation, despite her obvious excitement at having met “a celebrity couple.” She doesn’t seem to realize that we’re not too different from them.

“Oh, that’s great. Mixed families are awesome,” the pregnant woman says with a polite smile. Her husband gives her an I-told-you-to-not-to-talk-to-strangers look.

Luckily, before the mood becomes more awkward, we arrive at the ground floor, where we can finally extricate ourselves from the situation.

But as soon as we walk out the elevator and into the lobby, we’re met by Paul’s worried face.

Something’s wrong.

He briskly approaches us, while occasionally glancing back at the sitting area of the lobby, where guests often wait to see residents of the building.

“I’m sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Hunter, the concierge from the previous shift let her in because he has seen her with your daughter a few times. I asked her if she has an appointment with you, and she told me she does. I just got here and I was just about to call you to confirm.”

“Who are you talking about?” I ask, Paul’s concern making me uneasy.

“Uh…” Paul pauses, like he’s trying to find the right words to say something sensitive. “Your… Uh, Ashley Hunter, sir. I’ve seen her on TV speaking badly about you, which is why I was worried.”

“Ashley? She’s here?” I ask, stopping in my tracks and looking at the couch a few yards behind Paul. Sure enough, there’s a blonde sitting there. She has her head down, playing with her phone.

Fucking hell. As if I needed another problem tonight.

I don’t need Ashley to be telling Megan stuff that she doesn’t need to know. Things have been going really well between the two of us and I really don’t need Ashley ruining everything.