Call me crazy, but meeting this body's husband in front of the hospital was not on my bingo sheet.
But I forgot I have somehow transmigrated into a novel, and novel coincidences are a thing. Forget logic, forget rationale: important characters will always meet in the strangest situations.
It isn't cold enough to shiver in this weather, but I do anyway, a trickle of ice-cold fear snaking its way down my spine. Doing my best to hide the sudden surge of fear when his amber eyes continue to stare into mine, I nod in response.
Meanwhile, my thumb presses on the power button, killing the screen before Knox can read what I've been looking into. I'd been focused on finding lawyers; I haven't worked out how to bring it up to my insta-husband.
His gaze drops to my hand, lingering on the now-dark phone screen. Then he walks around the unassuming car to open the passenger door without another word.
He looks calm and unperturbed, but his knuckles are pale against tan skin, showing how hard he's gripping the metal frame.
"Get in."
Okay. He might be a stranger, but even I can sense the irritation threading beneath his words.
I get in, as quiet as a church mouse, barely daring to breathe. The interior of the car is pristine, like he'd just bought it off a car lot, and smells like real pine and fresh-cut grass, not the artificial scent you'd find on tree-shaped fresheners.
My entire body is heavy and stiff, and when Knox closes the door behind me, it feels like there isn't enough oxygen to keep me alive in this metal box on wheels. I breathe through my mouth as silently as possible, trying to grab as much air as possible, wondering if this is the alpha werewolf effect.
Next, he slides in beside me, taking up what little air there was left. My breath gets shallower.
Despite having an entire center console between us, it feels like his shoulder's only a millimeter away from mine, overwhelming me with the residual heat from his skin.
His door shuts, and I jump a little, surprised for no reason.
The engine turns over with the push of a button.
Then he leans across the center console.
My breath dies.
His forearm grazes my chest and every nerve ending I possess fires at once. I press back into the seat so hard the seat creaks, sucking in my belly until it's concave—which doesn't help much, because his arm is across my chest, not my stomach.
He doesn't even glance at me; two seconds later he's got my seatbelt in his hand and pulls it across my body, clicking it firmly into place.
The whole thing takes what, two and a half seconds, max. It feels like two minutes.
He draws back and fixes me with a level look. "Hungry?"
I nod before the word even registers. Yes. Sure. Anything. Just—sit back. Over there. On your side of the car.
His lips curve, if barely. Then he shifts into drive and pulls away from the curb, and I stare out the passenger window with my heart thundering in my ears.
* * *
Knox Marshall, the Knox Marshall, the main love interest and a billionaire several times over, takes me to a large restaurant without prices on the menu. I can tell the moment I walk in; it's one of those places.
He doesn't stop for help and doesn't speak to anyone, just presses his hand against the small of my back to guide me through the main dining room and down a corridor, into a private room with a single table already set for two.
He pulls out my chair.
I sit.
A waiter materializes before I've even settled my purse on the table.
"The usual, Mr. Marshall?"
"Yes," Knox says, without even looking in my direction.
"Very good, sir."
The waiter bows. Actually bows—a crisp inclination of the torso—then backs out of the room, still half bent over, and pulls the door shut as he goes.
I stare at the closed door. Is this really how rich people eat?
This body's husband settles into his chair across from me, both forearms resting on the edge of the table and his body tilted back with effortless authority, like the dining chair is really just a throne in disguise.
Then his golden, wolf-like eyes meet mine and stay there, unblinking.
Waiting.
I fold my hands in my lap to stop them from fidgeting, not sure what he's waiting for. Then I recall he managed to find me at a hospital. Someone must have told him; maybe he's waiting for the entire story.
"My mother was hospitalized," I explain, testing the words.
He nods with a single, arrogant dip of his chin. "Do you want to go back after you eat?"
"No." I shake my head; being chased out once in a day is enough. "Why were you there?"
"I took the rest of the day when I heard you went to the hospital."
I blink, processing the layers of what he said. He left work, a job he takes very seriously in the novel, because I was at a hospital. This implies a level of concern that doesn't seem accurate to the storyline.
Then again, he didn't come inside and check on his mother-in-law.
So what is this? Duty? Obligation? Keeping tabs?
I fall silent. His fingers tap against the tablecloth like an ominous metronome. His eyes never leave my face. They're dark and unreadable, the amber swallowed by something deeper. Every so often, his nostrils flare.
Is he sniffing me? God, can he smell how nervous I am?
I think about the word divorce. How to shape it. Where to place it in a sentence that won't get me killed ahead of schedule. For whatever reason, I keep coming up blank.
The food arrives after a long and awkward silence on silver-domed plates. The waiter sets mine before me with a flourish, lifts the dome, and reveals—
Chicken. Smothered in cream sauce. Crowned with mushrooms. Dozens of mushrooms, sliced and fanned and glistening.
My stomach turns.
Across the table, Knox slices into a steak so rare it weeps red onto the white porcelain. His knife moves with surgical precision. It's too red for me, but way better than the fungus-smothered concoction on my plate.
He lifts a bite to his mouth and chews, every movement elegant, but my eyes are focused on all the silverware next to his plate, mimicking his choice of fork.
I push a mushroom to the edge of my plate. Then another. A third.
Eating one won't kill me, but I might throw up on the table. If I do that… I can't even imagine how my "husband's" reaction would be.
"I thought you loved mushrooms," he comments, sounding casual.