His 24-Hour Wife. Rachel Bailey

Summer said. “Now look into each other’s eyes.”

      Holding his expression in place, Adam focused on Callie’s silver-blue eyes, and thought about the pile of paperwork waiting for him on his desk. Spreadsheets and graphs. Anything to ensure he didn’t let himself get caught up in a moment that wasn’t real.

      Callie looked back at him as she gripped his wrist a little too tightly and ate the food from his fork.

      Summer sighed. “That wasn’t believable. How about we clear these plates away and try a few poses in the living room?”

      Callie winced. It was a small movement, and if he hadn’t been this close and focusing on her face, he might have missed it. He turned his wrist so he could grab her hand and gave it a slight squeeze, offering reassurance. As he realized what he was doing, he felt like laughing. He’d never had trouble attracting women in the past—hell, he’d even attracted this very woman in the past—yet here he was, offering reassurance because she was going to have to spend a few minutes touching him.

      After the table was cleared, they moved into the living room and Callie’s sister spent ten minutes arranging them in various poses. It was awkward and he’d pretty much rather be having a root canal than be arranged like puppets by someone he’d just met. Worse was that he was still fighting the simmering desire for his fellow puppet.

      Finally, Summer said, “Hang on. Let me show you something.” She grabbed a digital camera and hooked it to a laptop, then took a few photos of Adam with an arm around Callie’s waist. “Have a look at these.”

      Adam moved to the laptop screen and saw the image. He looked stiff and unnatural, and Callie looked almost pained.

      “That’s not good enough,” he admitted.

      Callie bit down on her bottom lip. “We’re going to have to try harder.” She spun away from the laptop and the evidence of their awkwardness, and took in the room. “What if we put on some music? Maybe we could dance. That would give us something to actually do so we didn’t feel self-conscious.”

      “Good idea,” he said. In one sense the closeness of dancing could be dangerous, but if he and Callie took back control of the situation he also might be able to regain control of his body. It was worth a try.

      Summer headed for the sound system in the corner, and seconds later, a modern day crooner’s voice filled the room. Adam held out a hand to Callie. “Shall we?”

      She smiled at the formality of his offer and took his proffered hand. “We shall.”

      Her palm was smooth and warm; the friction of her skin sliding over his set off a depth charge down deep in his belly.

      He guided her to an open space between the living room and the entryway that had polished wood floors and less obtrusive lighting. Then he pulled her into his arms and led them in a simple dance step. With the music filling the air, it felt more natural than the poses they’d been trying.

      “You were right,” he murmured. “I do feel more comfortable.”

      “Me, too,” she said. “Is it okay with you if I move a little closer?”

      He chuckled. “We’re supposed to be in love. I think you’re allowed to get as close as you want without asking permission.”

      She stepped in and leaned her head on his shoulder. She felt good there. Felt right. As if his body remembered their intimacy. He took his hand from her waist and wrapped it around her, securing her against him, and she let out a contented sigh.

      He imagined leaning down, finding her lips and losing himself in her kiss. Then taking her by the hand down the hall to her bedroom...

      Except they had an audience.

       And they were pretending.

      This wasn’t real. He couldn’t let himself be lulled into falling for the very story they were spinning for the press. He released Callie and stepped back.

      “I, er,” he said, and then cleared his throat. “That seemed to go better.”

      Callie nodded. “I was less self-conscious. What did you think, Summer?”

      Summer held up her camera and pointed to the laptop. “Excellent. Once you two started dancing, it was totally believable. Just remember how you did it when photographers ask you to pose.”

      “Sure,” Callie said, her voice a little husky. “We’ll pretend we’re dancing.”

      Adam rubbed two fingers across his forehead as he contemplated having to repeat this. “Will do,” he said, throwing a glance at the door. He needed some space to clear his head. And to rein in his body. “Look, I should head home. Thanks for your help, Summer.” He stuck out his hand, and Summer shook it. Then he turned to Callie. “Callie, let me know when you have an interview set up and I’ll clear my schedule.”

      “I’ll get on it first thing in the morning.”

      He nodded. After the dance they’d shared, it seemed ridiculous to offer her the same handshake as her sister, but then again, they weren’t actually dating. He settled on the same greeting he gave his brothers’ fiancées and kissed her cheek.

      Then he left the apartment. Quickly. Because the stupid part of his brain had told him to kiss her again. And this time, not on the cheek.

      Once he was safely inside the elevator with the doors closed, he thumped his head back on the wall and swore. Next time, he’d have better control over his reactions to Callie Mitchell. Next time, it would simply be like two actors in a scene.

      Next time...

      He groaned and thumped his head against the wall again as he realized this was only the beginning.

      * * *

      Two days later, Callie found herself with a journalist, walking through the Hawke Brothers’ flower markets. She was wearing a pale gold dress and kitten heels, her hair and makeup photo-ready.

      Adam was striding a few steps ahead with the photographer, who wore ripped jeans and a faded T-shirt. Adam, in contrast, was in a tuxedo, parting the crowd like Moses at the Red Sea. No one walked the way Adam Hawke did—powerfully, and always with a purpose. The jacket fit his shoulders perfectly, highlighting their breadth and strength. It was mesmerizing.

      “You sure lucked out in husbands,” Anna Wilson said as she walked in step beside Callie. Anna was the first journalist she’d called when looking for a place to launch the story. She was already a friend, and she had a reputation for writing good, solid stories on famous people that neither simpered over the subject nor made snarky digs.

      “Yep, Lady Luck was kind to me that night.” Memories of twisted white sheets and Adam’s naked physique rolled through her mind, causing her mouth to suddenly go dry.

      “Maybe I should try Vegas,” Anna said. “If I’m going to try my luck anywhere, then surely luck’s hometown will work as well for me as it did for you.”

      A stab of unease hit Callie squarely in the belly. Luck hadn’t smiled on her in Vegas. It had given her a night in heaven, sure, but the price had been high. Spending this time with Adam now might just drive her insane.

      “You’re not wearing rings,” Anna said suddenly.

      “Rings?” Callie repeated.

      “You know,” Anna teased, “those little bands we traditionally exchange when we get engaged and married.”

      Callie frowned, surprised at herself for missing this detail. When they’d originally exchanged vows, they’d paid for cheap rings that had come from a tray kept under the counter at the chapel. She and Adam had both taken them off the next morning. Hers was in her makeup case where she’d tucked it after sobering up, and she assumed Adam had thrown his away.

      “We’re getting new rings for the new ceremony,” she said, thinking on her feet. “It’s symbolic of us starting fresh.”