Hudson

“I’d like to meet your parents, Mari.” I pour her a glass of red wine over a candlelit dinner Friday evening at a romantic Michelin star restaurant on the Upper East Side, Villa Moreno’s. We haven’t seen much of each other this week as I’ve been working longer hours than usual finishing up plans for a public library in Still Creek Township, New Jersey, but it’s time to get back on track.

Reaching for the nearest glass of water, she tosses back a couple gulps in an attempt to disguise a startled choke.

“You never said anything about meeting my parents,” she says when she comes up for air. “I really don’t want to involve them in any of this. I can’t do that to them.”

I take a sip of my wine, swirling it first, then flashing a million-dollar smile. “Why wouldn’t they be a part of this? I’m marrying their daughter.”

“You’re fake-marrying their daughter, which means you’re going to be my fake husband and they’re going to be your fake in-laws. It’s probably better off that they don’t even meet you.”

“Why’s that?”

She sighs. “Honestly, you’re probably not what they had in mind for me. And I don’t even know if they’ll like you. And if they think I’m marrying someone who doesn’t deserve me, it’ll break their hearts.”

“Ouch.”

“I’m just being honest, Hudson.” She takes another sip of water, completely ignoring the hundred-dollar glass of pinot placed before her. “You’re not personable or friendly. You’re not small town. You’re cold and distant and self-important. You’re all business and no fun. They’ve got pretty high hopes, and I don’t think they’d be crazy about their only child growing up to become some fancy-pants architect’s trophy wife.”

“A fancy-pants architect’s trophy wife?” I chuckle. “Is that all you think you’re going to be to me?”

She nods. “Basically.”

“Just as your parents have expectations for your future partner, mine do too. My mother would choke on her pearls if she believed all I wanted for a life partner was some vapid trophy wife. I’m looking for an equal, Mari. Someone intelligent. Respectable. Strong. A force to be reckoned with.” My eyes lock on hers. “And that’s you. All you have to do is be yourself, and my parents will love you and think you’re absolutely perfect for me.”

Mari clears her throat, glancing down at the napkin folded in her lap. “Wow. Um. That’s … that’s really nice of you to say … I kind of feel bad now.”

“Don’t. You were only being honest. I respect an honest woman.” I take another sip of wine.

Our server approaches the table, taking our orders, and my gaze falls on Mari’s still untouched wine goblet.

“Not feeling wine tonight?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “Not really a drinker. Sorry.”

“I never knew that about you.”

“There are a lot of things you don’t know about me.” She flashes a smile that, for a split second, makes me feel like I’ve known her a lot longer than two months. “At least not yet.”

I lift my wine, nodding toward her water glass. “A toast?”

She clinks her drink against mine.

“To getting to know one another,” I say.

“To getting to know one another,” she mimics.

I take another sip, unable to remove my gaze from her. Under the flickering candlelight, she’s radiant, glowing from within. Her blonde hair is swept back, just off her neck, and subtle diamond studs adorn her ears. Her lips are shaded in soft pink and her lashes are dark and curled. She’s the image of whispered grace and emerging refinement wrapped in a tight little black dress and heels that make her almost as tall as me.

She’s going to fit in just fine as the newest member of the Rutherford family.

Not a doubt in my mind.

Placing my hand across the table, I bring it over hers. Our eyes meet once more.

“You look beautiful tonight, Mari,” I say. “I meant to tell you that earlier when I picked you up.”

“Thank you.” Her full lips press together, stifling a humbled smile.

Suddenly and without warning, I find myself desperately curious to know what they taste like, what they feel like. And when Mari readjusts her posture, bending forward, the pillow-soft tops of her breasts nearly spill out of her dress, sending my cock straining against the inside of my slacks.

Thank God for table cloths.

“Anyway, how was your day?” she asks, head tilted to the side.

But I can’t think about my day, and mind-numbing small talk doesn’t interest me. All I can do is stare at the sexy little thing in front of me. And knowing sex is completely off the table and that I’m literally the last person on earth Mari would ever want to fuck only makes me want her more.