The Marriage Of Inconvenience. Nina Singh
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I might be making a huge mistake here.
“Anyway.” Angeline shifted. “He’s on his way over.”
Max lifted his head at the announcement.
“That’s right.” She looked around the plush, Eastern decor of her condo. Would he like it? She was surprised to realize that it mattered to her. A burgundy-and-black patterned Oriental rug adorned the hardwood floor. It matched the draperies that hung from the bay windows on each wall. The full-floor condominium had a large kitchen and two bedrooms positioned on opposite sides. A far cry from the one-bedroom apartment they’d shared off campus for their brief union as man and wife.
“He’s bringing over some of his stuff,” she continued to her captive audience of one. “We have to look like a genuine married couple.”
The chime of the doorbell interrupted them. Max moved himself off the sofa and made a mad dash to the door.
“Traitor,” Angeline mumbled.
On shaky legs, she went to let R.J. in. As soon as she opened the door, Max barreled into him.
R.J. laughed in surprise. Bracing himself, he looked across the threshold at her. “I can’t believe he remembers me.”
She smiled. Max had been the poor soul to hear all about her foolish pining since R.J. had left. She hadn’t given him a chance to forget R.J.’s name.
“Is he still chewing the rugs?” R.J. asked as he picked up the dog.
Angeline nodded. “Yeah, the vet says it’s just something some breeds do.”
She stepped aside to let him in. He was dressed casual, black tailored pants with a V-neck beige sweater that showed just a triangle of dark chest hair. Even with the lanky dog still in his arms, he looked like the phenomenal success that he was.
“I didn’t know he had a breed,” R.J. said and carried the dog in. “I thought he was just a small furry black mutt.”
“He is,” she replied. “But somewhere in that confusion is a breed that feasts on fabric fibers.”
Angeline watched as he playfully wrestled Max to the floor. His tan skin reminded her of the bronze statues she’d studied while in Europe. His large shoulders shook with laughter as Max nipped at his face. A hint of sorrow hit her as she realized he’d missed their hound but resented having to see her again.
He straightened after several moments of playful tussling. A slight sheen of perspiration dampened his brow.
The amusement faded from his face as he looked at her. It was replaced by something foreign, something she couldn’t name. But it had her quaking.
She cleared her throat. “So, I see you found the place okay?”
He nodded.
“It’s pretty humid out there, isn’t it?” Lord, she hated small talk.
“Yeah, I guess there’s a huge storm on its way east.”
“I hope the Bays’ flight doesn’t get canceled.” She forced a smile. “Logan still shuts down at the hint of a raindrop.”
He nodded, his stare intense.
She closed the door and turned to face him.
“Here.” He held out his hand to her. A large stone glittered in his palm. “Your ring.”
She reached for it. “I—I didn’t realize you were going to get a ring. It’s lovely.”
“I tried to find a large one,” he said. “In case Tavov and Mila are wondering why you don’t always wear it, they’ll just assume it’s because of its large size.”
“Well, it is a big stone.” She picked it up, a part of her wishing he’d slip it on her finger himself.
“We have to look authentic. I rented it, along with a band for myself.”
A lump formed in her throat. “I still have my original wedding ring,” she admitted, unsure why.
“Oh.” He cleared his throat. “Well, I needed to get one. Besides, a large diamond is far more suited to you. Always has been.”
She wasn’t sure how to respond to that. An uncomfortable silence settled between them. He hadn’t even held on to that small symbol of their marriage. It shouldn’t have disappointed her, but it did.
“Anyway,” R.J. continued, “I brought over a few things so it looks like I live here when your guests arrive tomorrow.” He lifted the leather carrying case in his hand. “The rest will be delivered in the morning. Just show me where I can put it and I’ll have to be on my way.” He was brusque, to the point. R.J. clearly didn’t want to spend any more time alone with her than he had to.
“I emptied part of the closet. It’s through those doors,” she directed him.
She wanted him to stay. It had been so long since they had talked to each other.
“Can I get you something to drink? Some tea? Or wine? I happen to have some of the red I know you like.” She happened to have it because she’d searched all of the North End’s Italian district for it.
“Used to like,” he corrected her. “I don’t drink that anymore.”
“Oh.” A dull ache nestled in her chest. She didn’t even know what he liked anymore.
So much for having him stay awhile.
An idea began to form. “Well. That might be a problem,” she said with more enthusiasm than she should have.
“What? That I don’t drink the same wine I used to?”
“No, that we’re supposed to be happily married still and we don’t know anything about each other now. I think we need to discuss this. Get our stories straight for the dinner conversation tomorrow night.”
She started pacing along the long coffee table in the middle of the room. Max walked with her a few steps before settling himself near the fireplace.
“There are all sorts of things I need to know about you, all kinds of questions I should ask, and vice versa.”
R.J. looked uncomfortable for a moment. Letting out a deep breath, he rubbed his palm over his face. “I suppose you’re right.” He sat down on the sofa. “Looks like I’ll need some of that wine after all,” he added with a dry tone.
An almost giddy relief washed over her. He would stay. “I’ll be right back,” she said and ran into the kitchen.
When she returned, Max was snoring and R.J. had settled himself comfortably on the sofa.
“All right, let’s start easy. How hard was it to start your firm?” she asked as she poured the glasses.
He lifted his head to look at her. “That’s easy?”
“No? Okay, we’ll get back to that one. What’s your favorite dish now?”
“Franks and beans.”
She felt her stomach turn over. “I’ve always hated franks and beans.”
“I know.”
She waved her hand. “Okay, what do you like to drink? I know it’s not this anymore.” She indicated the glass she was handing him.
“Ouzo. I like ouzo.”
“Ouzo? Isn’t that a bit hard-core?” Although it made sense, because so was he. He’d always been a firm man, but now he seemed harsher somehow, colder and more distant.
“I just got back from the Mediterranean and found I’d acquired an appreciation for it. It tastes like liquid licorice with a punch.”
She tried not to turn up her nose. “I’ve always hated licorice.”
He waited a beat. “I