My wife.
I didn’t truly expect to go the marriage route again, but once I locked on the impulse, it was impossible to shake it. But even with a wedding ring on her finger, I know I won’t get attached. I don’t ever get attached. This is about continual repeat performances of the hottest sex I’ve ever had, and the added bonus of keeping the gold diggers off my back. Nothing more and nothing less.
My cell buzzes on the nightstand, and I grab it and head for the bathroom. Shutting the door, I glance down at the screen as I answer.
“What do you want, Cannon?”
“Holly Wix? You’re the luckiest fucking bastard on the planet. You knew all along, didn’t you? I mean, how could you not? Her face has been on TV enough lately that even I know what she looks like, and I hate country music. And then Jeanette doesn’t stop talking about her and that cowboy-hat-wearing man of hers. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me, you fucking asshole. Had me and the rest of the world thinking you didn’t have a clue who might show up last night. I should’ve known . . .”
I grit my teeth as he refers to JC Hughes as her man. Holly fucking belongs to me—not him. There’s no disputing that as of the early hours of this morning. Even though I know the story behind it, I dislike the idea of another man thinking he has any right to lay claim to her.
Shifting, I lean against the granite countertop. Leave it to my second-in-command to jump to the conclusion that I actually knew who she was.
“And that’s where you’re wrong. When she’s not covered head to toe in sequins, fringe, and ten pounds of makeup, she doesn’t exactly look the same as she does on TV.”
“Seriously? You really, truly had no idea?”
“None. At least, not until she told me.”
“Holy fucking shit.”
“Indeed.” I’m already impatient with this conversation. “Anything else, or can I go about my morning?”
“Sorry. I’m still processing.” Another moment of silence, and then Cannon asks, “Have you heard what the media is saying?”
“I only caught a few seconds of the news this morning. Why?”
“They’re tearing her apart on every station, and all over the Internet. You should probably care that they’re calling your wife a cheating whore. But then again, some of them are saying she made the right move because Hughes has apparently been fucking around on her since the beginning.”
Rage burns through my veins, which might make me a hypocrite because I jumped to the same conclusion at first. But she’s my wife, and that’s fucking unacceptable. Holly said this would happen, and I told her I’d handle it. I’m not about to drop my end of the bargain.
“Get the PR team on it. Now. Crush anyone who says a negative word about her. I don’t care what you have to do.”
“How are you going to spin it?”
I fill him on the story I want fed to every major media outlet in the country—fuck, the world—and the accompanying threats.
Before we hang up, Cannon adds, “Since you’re in Vegas, you should probably know that they’re taking odds on how long this is going to last.”
“They take odds on everything.”
“Just saying. If you have any inside information, I’ll happily go place my bet and rake in some easy money.”
“Are you asking me to bet on when my marriage is going to end?”
“Come on, man. We all know this isn’t going to last. So, what do you think? I give it six months at the outside before you’re sick of her pussy and will be dying for some variety.”
I grit my teeth because I don’t have time for this shit right now. “Thank you for your vote of confidence.”
“Seriously, Crey—”
“Fuck off, Cannon. Go fix shit.”
I hang up, my morning mood turning dark as I open the bathroom door.
“How bad is it?”
Holly is sleep-rumpled and still wearing the undershirt I dressed her in last night after she passed out on me. Her legs and feet are bare, and her dark brown hair is tumbling down around her shoulders. She looks all of sixteen years old. Which apparently makes me a dirty old man, because I want that fresh-faced beauty staring up at me from her knees with my cock between her lips again.
“It’s not good, but it’ll be fine. Don’t worry about it,” I reply before asking, “How old are you?”
“You didn’t google me?” Her eyebrows inch up toward her hairline.
“I prefer the truth, and not some shit made up on Wikipedia.”
She looks down at her feet, and I almost miss her answer. “I’m twenty-two.”
I’m too fucking shocked to school my expression. My eyes feel like they must be bulging from my head. I rub a hand down my face.
“Are you fucking serious?” I never considered she might be that young.
Her shoulders go back, and she straightens to her full height, a whopping five foot six or so. “If my age was important, maybe you should have asked me last night.”
Holly has a point. Last night, I was so caught up in the hype of my own making that it didn’t occur to me to ask. When she’s wearing makeup and more than just my T-shirt, she easily looks several years older.
She narrows her eyes. “How old are you?”
“Thirty-three.”
Her mouth forms an O. My morning wood rears up in my boxer briefs, and her attention drops to waist level.
A hesitant smile flits across her face. “Do you . . . um . . . want me to . . . ?”
She really might be the perfect woman.