Total pages in book: 24
Estimated words: 23250 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 116(@200wpm)___ 93(@250wpm)___ 78(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 23250 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 116(@200wpm)___ 93(@250wpm)___ 78(@300wpm)
There’s no odd taste.
No unexpected texture.
The whole momentary experience is not bad.
Not bad at all.
I prepare to pop the little sucker all the way into my mouth when Nero’s other foot unexpectedly flies my direction. There’s no time for a block or to completely avoid the collision; however, I manage to Matrix style the shit so that my forehead makes minimal contact with the brick he calls his heel.
My ass hits our cold bedroom floor on a loudly barked, “Shit!”
Through slightly blurred vision and ringing in my ears from being UFC kicked, I somehow manage to make out our sheets getting tossed aside, my naked husband hopping into a combat position, and a gun being aggressively whipped around defensively.
“Elle?!” He shouts out into the dark of the early morning before turning on a lamp. “Elle?!”
“Present,” I half-heartedly murmur to his vibrating figure.
“What the fuck, baby?” His face scrunches in horror and confusion alike. “Why are you on the floor?”
“Why are you Jackie fucking Chan in your sleep?”
“That was you?!”
Groaning through the increasing pains, I somehow manage to slowly nod.
“I could’ve killed you!”
“Yeah, the slater you sleft behind on my sworehead, is levidence of pat.”
“You’re slurring.”
“AnI?”
Needing an answer is replaced by needing my eyes to close more.
It’ll only take a second to get myself back together.
Just.
One.
Sec.
***
Dr. Hans Ueno, our concierge doctor who has been here for the past hour, flashes the light in my eyes for the fourth time. “She doesn’t seem concussed.”
“No, just blind from how many times you’ve put that thing in my face.”
Nero tosses me a narrowed glare of disapproval.
Hans presents the man I’m pretending to be married to, but not pretending to love, with an amused grin. “She sounds fine to me.”
My husband folds his arms firmly across his white t-shirt covered chest. “Hans-”
“Relax, DeLuca. She most likely passed out for those fifteen seconds due to shock not serious injury. Her head hurts because she took a foot to the face, which is a normal human body response to such trauma. She’s had no vomiting, no nausea, no seizures, no blood loss, her pupils are fine, her reflexes are fine, and her ability to remember more than just the standard basics of where does she live, when she was born, with questions like who’s won an Oscar in the last ten years-”
“DiCaprio,” I smugly smirk from the kitchen chair I’m sitting in.
“I will sink his yacht like the fucking Titanic if he comes anywhere near you. Ever.”
“I don’t feel like she needs a CT scan or an MRI; however, if anything changes such as dizziness, unexpected balance issues, or appetite issues, call me immediately, and we’ll get her in for those.” Hans casually drops his tool into his bag prior to zipping it closed. “For now, I recommend taking it easy.” He meets my brown gaze. “No working, no heavy lifting, and no more role playing in which your husband channels his inner Michael Bisping, okay?”
The faintest laugh escapes on a nod.
“I’m going to leave you with pain meds.” He reaches into his bag, scoots around a few things, and places a bottle on the empty kitchen table space beside me. “Use only as necessary. I won’t be giving you a refill. I’m a doctor. Not a drug dealer. DeLuca is one of my clients that understands the concept, I expect his wife will, too.”
“Absolutely,” I quietly promise.
Not into drugs.
Never have been.
Never will be.
To each their own – a concept my stepbrothers fail to understand when I’ve declined the shit that they’ve offered me in the past.
Nero clears his throat before announcing, “I’m going to walk Hans to the door. Stay. Here.”
“How about a please, Mr. DeLuca?”
He reaches for a wrapped cold compress from the kitchen counter, crosses over to me, and places it back on the small lump on my head at the same time Hans steps away to provide him with space. Afterward, he leans in a little closer to chastise, “You want me to look like a pussy in front of the doctor?”
“I want you to look like my husband in front of a guest.”
The reminder is equally necessary and unnecessary.
Challenging him isn’t truly the intention this time.
It’s not wanting there to be any holes in the façade we’ve labeled our marriage forcing things between us to end long before I’m ready or can even fathom the possibility.
A heavy sigh shakes his entire frame. “Please, stay here, Twinkle Toes.”
It’s impossible not to grin widely as I shift the possession of the ice pack to me. “Of course, Nero.”
He flashes me the tiniest smirk of relief and steps away to escort Hans out of our home.
Our few minutes of separation provide me with the first chance since the mishap to have an actual moment to breathe. This whole thing now sits at the top of the most embarrassing moments of my life, successfully beating out that time in high school when I got my prom date one of those flower things not knowing he was allergic to said flower sending him to the ER and me home in shame for almost killing someone. Yeah, that was bad, but possibly being given a concussion for trying to get a little kinky with my fake husband is so much fucking worse.