“You okay, Gwen?”
I snap open my eyes at Miller’s question. My fake husband leans against the short wall that separates the entryway from the living room. And to be perfectly honest, he looks like he just stepped out of one of my mother’s books.
Just what I need right now. A brutal reminder of how huge and hot he is, and how he’s probably as sick of this stuff as I am.
His dark hair is cut short, still rumpled from his nap. His black shirt hugs his broad chest like a second skin. So do the black jeans, and even in his socks, you could just eat him up. Whipped cream optional.
The worst part is, it’s a normal, almost boring look. How can that be sexy?
Hell if I know, but it is. Something hums in my veins I’ve never felt before, this heated rush that has far too much to do with Mr. Rush and not the adrenaline attack of the past twenty-four hours.
I try to nod. My name rolls off his tongue like warm caramel drips down the side of a scoop of vanilla ice cream.
His bright-blue eyes no longer look so tired, so worn out. Now they have a shine to them.
There’s more, too. He’s concerned. Rightfully so.
This guy and his twins are on the lam. That’s got to bother him deeply. Heck, I’m not even him, this isn’t my mess, and it’s not any easier for me.
If only that were true. Because I went and made it my mess when I let Manny talk me into helping Miller Rush twice.
I push off the door, hating how flustered I must look. “I’m fine. Let’s just eat.”
“Hoped you’d say that. It’s ready.”
He doesn’t have to remind me. My entire house has never smelled this good in my life. It pales even compared to the time I tried to cook a whole turkey dinner for Mother and her happy little M.E. Court team. She wound up rushing to my rescue. Turns out my cooking skills are far more impressive in my head.
Maybe I’m dreaming this. An overly handsome, wildly sexy stranger in my house has just cooked up a fabulous meal from my meagerly supplied cupboards. That’s more than a dream.
It’s a flipping fairy tale.