Marrying Mr. Wrong (Dirty Martini Running Club #3) - Claire Kingsley Page 0,31

years away from buy-someone-a-house money.

Be that as it may, I rounded out my weekend with another visit to Dad, who spent most of the afternoon shouting at the TV about the injustice of his favorite Seattle football player being traded to another team.

And kale. He somehow worked in another rant about kale. It was impressive, really.

By Monday morning, I was convinced I had this thing on lockdown. No problem.

Except…

I hadn’t exactly told anyone about agreeing to stay married to Cox.

My friends had asked about it over martinis on Saturday, and I’d hedged, saying we were working on it. It wasn’t a lie, exactly. I was just fudging the truth a little bit. Because we were working on it. Or we would be in a few months when Cox was sure it wouldn’t impact his big development deal.

Obviously I was going to tell them. But since this whole marriage thing was just a legal technicality, I didn’t want to make a big fuss about it.

That did leave the matter of my dad. I was going to have to explain things, especially when it came time to drop the bomb that I’d negotiated a new house for him. It was going to take some coaxing to get him on board. And by some coaxing, I meant a concerted effort over weeks—possibly months—to soften him up to the idea that I was taking care of his housing situation. My dad did not like accepting charity, especially for something so big, and especially when it was coming from me. Cooking him dinner once in a while was one thing. Getting him a new house was quite another.

This was going to be a tough sell.

The only other crack in my self-assurance that everything would be fine was the fact that Cox kept texting me.

A lot.

Not so much that it was annoying or creepy. But enough that I started to realize he wasn’t going to disappear and reappear in a few months when it was time to get divorced.

I had no idea why he was doing it. Maybe he was just making conversation. Maybe he thought it was funny. Maybe he didn’t have any hobbies and texting me randomly gave him something to do.

Morning, sugar. Have a good day.

I just had lunch at McCormick and Schmick’s. Ever been there?

More permits came through. Might need to pop some champagne to celebrate.

Have you tried on the bra and panties I sent you?

With the exception of that last one, his messages resulted in brief conversations. We’d text back and forth a few times. Then, hours later, or maybe the next day, he’d text something else. I hadn’t even had too many text fails. I was convinced my phone was inhabited by an autocorrect demon whose mission was to mess up my texts as embarrassingly as possible. I’d named him Kane. But Kane had been oddly inactive in my conversations with Cox.

And I hadn’t answered his question about the bra and panties.

But yes, I had tried them on.

They were exquisite.

He clearly hadn’t picked them up at Target. They felt expensive. Luxurious. Decadent. And the bra was miraculously supportive while still being sexy, which was a rare find. Most bras that fit boobs like mine were beige and boring, not magic gravity-defying lace that let the twins be the best versions of themselves.

So on Monday, I indulged and wore my new silky, sexy underthings to work.

With a dress on over them, obviously.

Although, honestly, they looked amazing on me. If ever I was going to show up at work and play out the nightmarish scene of walking down the aisle toward my desk in nothing but my bra and panties, it would be in these.

Apparently my sort-of husband had great taste in underwear.

Not long after lunch, I sat at my desk and cast a quick admiring glance down at my chest—this bra worked so well with this dress—when Mr. Calloway emerged from his office. My heart did a little dance in my chest, but it wasn’t his appearance that caused the flutter. It was because I knew where he was going.

He had a meeting with Cox.

I had no idea why that made me feel so jittery, but it only got worse when he stopped at my desk.

“I need you to come with me.”

As if I were operating on autopilot, rather than by making conscious choices, I stood and gathered my things. He waited by my desk long enough for me to fall in step behind him and without another word, started walking