His Not-So-Blushing Bride. Fiona Brand

Nothing else. The simple half a word spoke volumes and it said, Poor Lucas, marrying that woman on the rebound.

      “You’re popular all of a sudden,” Cia said after the fourth beep in a row, and her tone tried and convicted him for a crime he’d not been aware of committing.

      “It’s just people congratulating us.”

      And he was done with that. Lana’s name popping up on the screen, after all this time, had unburied disillusionment he’d rather not dwell on.

      He hit the phone’s off button and dropped it in his pocket, then left the car in the driveway instead of pulling into the garage so it would be easier for Cia to get out.

      His efforts to untangle Cia’s hang-ups last night had failed. Tonight, he’d try a different approach. “Have dinner with me. To celebrate.”

      Before he could move, she popped the door and got out. He followed her up the drive and plowed through Amber’s fancy flowerbed to beat her to the porch.

      “Celebrate what?” she asked, annoyance leaking from her pores. “I was thinking about soaking for an hour or two in a hot bath and going to bed early, actually.”

      Before she could storm through the entryway, Lucas stopped her with a firm hand on her prickly little shoulder. “Wait.”

      With an impatient sigh, she turned. “What?”

      “Just because you’ve got your marriage license doesn’t mean we’re going to walk through this door and never speak again. You realize this, don’t you?” He searched her face, determined to find some glimmer of agreement. “This is the beginning, not the end. We’ve been faking being a happily engaged couple. Now we have to fake being a happily married couple. No, we don’t have to put on a performance right now, when no one’s around. But to do it in public, trust me, darlin’, when I say it will be miles easier if you’re not at my throat in private.”

      Her tight face flashed through a dozen different emotions and finally picked resignation. “Yeah. I know. I owe you an apology. It’s been a rough day.”

      For both of them. “Because you didn’t want to get married?”

      She shrank a little, as if she couldn’t support the heavy weight settling across her shoulders. As if she might shatter into a million shards of razor-sharp glass if he touched her. So he didn’t.

      But he wanted to, to see if he could soften her up, like during the five seconds he’d had her pliant and breathless in his arms and so off guard she’d actually kissed him back.

      “I’ve been prepared to be married ever since I came up with the idea.” Misery pulled at her full mouth. “It’s just … I didn’t have any idea how hard it would be to get married without my father walking me down the aisle. Me. Who was never going to get married in the first place. Isn’t that ridiculous?”

      One tear burst loose, trailing down her delicate cheekbone, and he had to do something.

      “Hey now,” he said, and wrapped his arms around her quivering shoulders, drawing her in close. She let him, which meant she must be really upset. Prickly Cia usually made an appearance when she was uncomfortable about whatever was going on inside her. “That’s okay to cry about. Cry all you want. Then I’ll get you drunk and take advantage of you, so you forget all about it.”

      She snorted out a half laugh, and it rumbled pleasantly against his chest. There was something amazing about being able to comfort a woman so insistent on not needing it. He’d grown really fond of soothing away that prickliness.

      “I could use a glass of wine,” she admitted.

      “I have exactly the thing. Come inside.” He drew back and smiled when some snap crept back into her watery eyes. “You can drink it while you watch me cook.”

      “You cook?” That dried up her waterworks in a hurry. “With an oven?”

      “Sure enough. I can even turn it on by myself.” As he led the way into the kitchen, a squawk cut him off. “Oh, good. Your wedding present is here.”

      Cia raised her brows at the large cage sitting on the island in the middle of the kitchen. “That’s a bird.”

      “Yep. An African gray parrot.” He shed his suit jacket and draped it over a chair in the breakfast nook.

      “You’re giving me a bird? As a wedding present?”

      “Not any bird. African grays live up to fifty years, so you’ll have company as you live all by your lonesome the rest of your life. And they talk. I figure anyone who likes to argue as much as you do needed a pet who can argue back. I named her Fergie.” He shrugged. “Because you like hip-hop.”

      Speechless, Cia stared at the man she had married, whom she clearly did not know at all, and tried to make some sort of sound.

      “I didn’t get you anything,” she managed to say.

      “That’s okay.” He unbuttoned his sleeves and rolled them deftly halfway up his tanned forearms, then started pulling covered plates out of the stainless steel refrigerator. “I wasn’t expecting anything.”

      “Neither was I,” she mumbled. “Doesn’t seem like that matters either way.”

      She’d never owned a bird and would have to take a crash course on its recommended care. As she peered into the cage, the feathered creature blinked and peered back with intelligent eyes, unafraid and curious. She fell instantly in love.

      The psychology of the gift wasn’t lost on her. Instead of showering her with expensive, useless presents designed to charm her panties off, he’d opted for a well-thought-out gift. An extremely well-thought-out gift designed for … what?

      Every time she thought he was done, Lucas Wheeler peeled back another one of his layers, and every time, it freaked her out a little more.

      Regardless, she couldn’t lie. “It’s the best present I’ve ever gotten.” And she’d remember forever not that her father hadn’t been there to give her away, but that her fake husband had given her something genuine on their wedding day. “Thanks, Lucas.”

      The sentiment stopped him in his tracks, between the stove and the dishwasher, pan dangling, forgotten, from his hand. That indefinable energy crackled through the air as he treated her to a scorching once-over. “Darlin’, you are most welcome.”

      “Didn’t you mention wine?” she asked, to change the subject, and slid onto a barstool edging the granite island.

      There was a weird vibe going on tonight, and she couldn’t put her finger on it. Alcohol probably wouldn’t help.

      Lucas retrieved a bottle from the refrigerator. “Sauvignon blanc okay?”

      When she nodded, he pulled a corkscrew from a wall hanger, then expertly twisted and wiggled the cork out in one smooth motion. The man did everything with care and attention, and she had a feeling he meant for her to notice. She did. So what?

      Yes, his amazing hands would glide over her bare body in a slow seduction and turn her into his sex-starved lover. No question about it.

      The real question was why she was envisioning Lucas touching her after simply watching him open wine. Okay. It had nothing to do with wine and everything to do with being in his arms last night. With being kissed and watching him dance like a spastic chicken, draining away all her misery over hurting his mother.

      Lucas skirted the barstools and handed her a glass of pale yellow wine. His fingers grazed hers for a shocky second, but it was over so fast, she didn’t have time to jerk away. Good thing, or she would have sloshed her drink.

      He picked up his own glass and, with his smoky blue-eyed gaze locked with hers, dinged the rims together. “To partnership,” he said. “May it be a pleasurable union.”

      “Successful, you mean. I’ll drink to a successful union.” As soon as the words came out, she