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The Way Back to Us - Part 3: Reconnection & Quiet Reckoning

The fence isn’t the only barrier between them. In Part 3 of The Way Back to Us, decades of silence break as Vanessa finally asks the question that’s haunted her since prom night. Evan’s answer isn’t what she expected—but it’s the truth she needed. With honesty comes relief, with relief comes a touch that speaks louder than words, and with that touch comes the chance to begin again.

The Way Back to Us - Part 3: Reconnection & Quiet Reckoning

The truth can hurt—but sometimes, it heals.

The question slips out before I can stop it. “Why didn’t you come?”

Evan’s head lifts, startled, though I don’t clarify. We both know what I mean.

For a long moment he just stands there, one hand curled around his mug, eyes fixed on the fence between us. His jaw works like he’s chewing on words that don’t want to come, the kind that scrape on the way out. When he finally speaks, his voice is low and steady, but the words feel like stones dropping into still water.

“My father had a heart attack the night before prom.” He swallows, gaze shifting to the ground. “We didn’t have a phone in the hospital room, and when I tried to get back the next day—” He stops, jaw tightening. “It was chaos. My mom packed us up within a week. We left town before I even knew what was happening.”

The air feels heavier, the space between us thick with years I can’t get back.

“You never called.” My voice betrays me, softer than the ache behind it.

“I didn’t have a way,” he says, looking up at me finally. His eyes are steady, not defensive, just worn with the weight of carrying it too long. “And by the time I could… it felt too late.”

The truth hangs there, fragile, almost unbelievable. But there’s no anger in his voice, only quiet honesty. And for the first time, I realize the story I told myself all those years, the betrayal, the rejection, was never his to begin with.

I stand there with my hands wrapped around my mug, letting his words sink in. A heart attack. A hospital. Boxes packed before he could even find the right way to explain.

It isn’t the story I carried with me all these years. In my version, he simply didn’t care enough. I replayed it like a film on loop, me in that dress, him choosing not to show, proof I was never enough. He left me waiting, humiliated, forgotten. But looking at him now, I can see the truth in the lines carved into his face, the steady weight in his voice.

We were just kids. Kids caught in something too big for either of us to fix.

The anger I always thought I’d feel if I ever asked him, that rush of bitter, deserved fury, never comes. Instead, there’s this quiet softness. Relief, almost. Like putting down a bag I didn’t realize I’d been dragging around for decades.

I search his face and, for a fleeting second, I see the boy I knew, the boy who swore he’d never let me go. It flickers there, in the set of his jaw and the way his eyes don’t shy away from mine now.

I exhale, the weight finally shifting. Maybe I hadn’t been abandoned after all.

The silence that follows isn’t the same as before. It doesn’t weigh me down or make me scramble for words. It settles, softer, like the quiet after a storm when the air still hums with what just passed through.

Evan shifts, setting his mug on the rail between us. His hand lingers there, knuckles brushing against the wood. 

Without thinking, mine drifts closer. It isn’t intentional, not really, but when my fingers graze his, neither of us pulls away. His skin is rougher now, callused, carrying years I never knew, but the heat of him is startling in its familiarity. I used to dream of this, just reaching across and finding him still there.

The touch is nothing and everything at once. A warmth that spreads from my hand through the rest of me, steadying in a way words never could.

He doesn’t look at me, not directly, but the line of his shoulders eases. A breath leaves him slow, controlled, like he’s been holding it for years.

I let my hand rest there, against his for just a moment longer, memorizing the feel of his skin, the quiet strength in it.

We don’t speak. We don’t need to. That single point of contact says what neither of us has been brave enough to: we’re still here.

And somehow, after everything, that feels like a beginning.

The next morning, I open the porch door expecting the usual routine, my mug, my side of the fence, the familiar space between us. But when I step outside, Evan’s already there, walking across the yard with two mugs in his hands.

He pauses at the fence like always, only this time he doesn’t stop. The latch creaks as he pushes it open, a sound so ordinary but it rattles through me like a warning bell. My breath snags when his boots hit my porch, solid and certain, as if this was never a question for him.He unlatches the gate, pushes it open with a quiet creak, and climbs the steps to my porch.

For a moment, I just stand there, sweater wrapped tight around me, unsure what to say. He hands me one of the mugs, the warmth seeping into my palms before I even thank him.

“Figured we could save ourselves a fence today,” he says, settling into the chair opposite mine. His voice is calm, almost casual, but the air feels different, closer, less guarded.

I sit too, the wood cool beneath me, and for the first time since coming back, it doesn’t feel like I’m occupying the house alone.

We sip in silence, not because we don’t have words, but because this, the shared space, the steam rising between us, the distance gone—is enough.

No sides. No barriers. Just us.

The sun climbs higher, spilling light across the porch, warm against my skin. The house behind me is still a mess, dust in the corners, paint peeling at the edges, a thousand things waiting to be fixed. But for once, I don’t feel like I have to carry it all on my own.

Evan leans back in his chair, mug balanced in his hand, quiet in a way that feels steady instead of distant. The silence between us isn’t sharp anymore. It’s soft. Companionable.

I realize my smile isn’t for the coffee warming my hands or the old boards beneath my feet. It’s for the possibility humming under my skin, the unspoken promise that tomorrow he might show up again, and the day after that, and maybe one day soon

It’s for this—two chairs on a porch at sunrise, the comfort of not being alone in it anymore.

Maybe love doesn’t always knock loudly. Sometimes, it sits with you at sunrise and makes the world feel possible again.

The Way Back to Us - ​​Part 2: Fence Line Conversations

Morning coffee. A nod across the fence. Silence that slowly shifts into something almost comfortable. In Part 2 of The Way Back to Us, Vanessa and Evan find themselves caught in a quiet ritual neither expected, where small talk turns into companionship and long-buried memories refuse to stay hidden.

The Way Back to Us - ​​Part 2: Fence Line Conversations

Sometimes the hardest conversations start with nothing at all.

The mornings come early here, sunlight streaming through the thin curtains before I’m ready for it. I make coffee anyway, clutching the mug like it’s the only thing keeping me upright, and step onto the back porch. The boards creak beneath my feet, the air cool enough that I pull my sweater tighter around me.

It’s quiet. It was always a little too quiet. The kind of silence that presses in when there’s no one left to fill it.

I’m halfway through my second sip when movement catches my eye. Next door, Evan steps out with a hose in hand, the arc of water darkening the soil around a row of plants.The set of his jaw is familiar, even with the years carved into it, the kind of steady presence that makes it too easy to remember who he used to be. For a second, it feels like I’m seventeen again, waiting for him to glance my way.

I clear my throat, forcing out a quiet, “Morning.”

His eyes flick to mine, cool and unreadable. For a heartbeat his eyes meet mine, then he turns away, silence doing all the talking.

The next day, it’s the same. And the day after that.

I sip my coffee, say hello. He nods, goes back to whatever task has his attention. Civil. Predictable. Like a script neither of us bothered to change.

Still, there’s something in the space between us, awkward, charged, a pull I don’t want to acknowledge. Every nod feels both like rejection and recognition, as if he’s keeping a wall up while reminding me he knows exactly who I am.

…………

It happens on a Tuesday. I’m halfway through my coffee when a scrabbling noise makes me look up. A tan blur bolts across the yard, his dog, tail wagging, ears flying as he barrels toward the hydrangeas like they’re his personal playground.

“Duke,” Evan calls, voice sharp but not loud. He strides across his lawn, hands firm on his hips, and for a second I just watch him, the way he fills the space like he’s always belonged there.

The dog trots back only halfway, tongue lolling, before veering toward me. I crouch automatically, scratching behind his ears. “Friendly,” I murmur, mostly to myself.

“Too friendly,” Evan says, stopping at the fence. His arms cross over his chest, that closed-off posture I’m starting to recognize.

“He’s fine,” I answer, letting the dog sniff at my hand before he lopes back toward his yard. “Better than fine, honestly. He brightened my morning.”

Something flickers in his expression, quick, gone before I can name it. “Sorry about that.”

I shake my head. “No harm done.”

The silence stretches, but this time it isn’t absolute. It feels like an opening, small and fragile. And for the first time since I came back, it doesn’t feel impossible to cross.

…………

The next morning, I step onto the porch with my coffee, not expecting anything more than another nod. Instead, Evan is already outside, hose coiled neatly at his feet. He glances over, then asks, “Settling in?” The words are plain, but they hit like more than small talk.

“As well as anyone can in a house that hasn’t been touched in years,” I answer, wrapping both hands around my mug.

His mouth shifts, not quite a smile. “That old place will keep you busy.”

I glance at the row of tomatoes behind him, their vines staked in perfect order. “Looks like you’ve got it figured out.”

He shrugs, eyes on the plants. “Keeps me out of trouble.”

It’s nothing, weather, gardens, walls that still smell faintly of dust. Yet it feels like something. His voice is low, careful, and the way he avoids holding my gaze says as much as the words he does offer. I sip my coffee, studying him when I shouldn’t.

We fall into silence again, but this one feels different. Easier. Almost comfortable.

And later, when I step back inside, I catch myself already looking forward to tomorrow morning.

It doesn’t happen all at once. A nod turns into a question. A question turns into a few more words. Before long, the rhythm of our mornings changes.

I find myself stepping outside with my coffee just as he does, mugs in hand on opposite sides of the fence. The steam curls upward into the cool air, drifting between us like a secret we haven’t decided to share.

Some days we talk about nothing, rain in the forecast, the stubborn squirrel raiding his tomatoes, the way the light flickers in my kitchen. Other days we don’t talk at all, just stand there, leaning against the fence like it’s enough to be in the same space again.

The silence doesn’t feel heavy anymore. It stretches, but it doesn’t suffocate. There’s a strange comfort in it, like an old song I’d forgotten the words to but still remember the tune.

One morning, I catch him watching me over the rim of his mug. For the first time in decades, his mouth curves into the faintest smile, brief, barely there, but real.

It’s nothing. And somehow, it’s everything.

…………

The morning starts like the others, two mugs, two shadows leaning against the fence. But the conversation drifts into a lull, the kind that feels different. Not empty. Waiting.

Evan clears his throat, gaze fixed on the dirt at his boots. “My wife… passed three years ago.” His voice is even, almost flat, but the weight behind it is unmistakable.

I set my mug down on the rail, fingers tracing the grain of the wood. “I’m sorry,” I say, and I mean it.

He nods once, like he expected as much, and doesn’t add more.

The silence holds, and before I can stop myself, words slip free. “My marriage ended about a year ago. Mutual, technically. But it felt like it was fading. Like I was disappearing while the rest of the world kept going.”

His eyes lift then, meeting mine. No pity, no judgment, just understanding.

We don’t press. We don’t need to. The quiet settles between us, not heavy this time, but grounding.

For the first time since I came back, I don’t feel like I’m carrying it all alone. But the quiet between us scratches at old wounds, ones I’ve tried to forget. The prom dress hanging untouched on the closet door, mocking me with its promise of a night that never came. The phone ringing into silence while I sat frozen, certain I’d hear his voice if I just waited one more minute. My father’s shouting downstairs, sharper than usual, angrier than I’d ever heard him, every syllable thick with disappointment. The slam of a door so hard it rattled the frame, leaving me trembling in the dark.

What I’ve never said out loud is how long I stayed there, curled on the edge of the bed, every car that passed making me hope it was him. How the clock kept ticking, each minute stealing something I couldn’t get back. Hoping he would show up and say sorry he was late, he got caught up in something. But that never happened and he never came back.

And now when Evan finally looks up, it’s impossible not to wonder if he’s remembering it too. That one night neither of us ever speaks of, the night that broke us before we even had a chance to begin.

To be Continued. Come back tomorrow for part three

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: September 2025

Cover Design by LS Phoenix

The Way Back to Us - Part 1: Returning and Remembering

At forty-five, Vanessa returns to the house she hasn’t set foot in since she was a teenager. Newly divorced, kids grown, she came back to rebuild what’s left of her life. What she didn’t expect was to find her old heartbreak living next door. The Way Back to Us is a tender, second-chance romance about grief, reconciliation, and the kind of love that lingers even when you try to leave it behind.

The Way Back to Us - Part 1: Returning and Remembering

                            Some Doors Never Stay Closed Forever    

The gravel crunches beneath my tires as I turn into the driveway, the sound louder than I remember, like the house has been waiting for me. It rises in front of me, sunlit but worn down, shutters hanging crooked and porch boards bowed with age. The paint is duller than I thought it would be, though maybe that’s just my memory painting it brighter than it ever was.

I kill the engine and sit for a moment, staring through the windshield. The air smells faintly of pine and old dust, a scent carried on the breeze that feels like it belongs here as much as the chipped shutters. Weeds snake up through cracks in the path, tangling where my mother’s roses used to bloom.

When I finally push the front door open, it groans like it’s reluctant to let me in. The air inside is thick, stale, carrying the weight of years being closed off. Dust glints in the afternoon light, drifting lazily through the entryway. I drop my keys onto the side table, and the clatter echoes too loud in the silence.

I drag my fingertips along the banister, tracing the carved wood. My younger self flashes in my mind, flying up these stairs two at a time, sneakers squeaking, my father’s voice calling after me. Now, the silence presses close, swallowing the memory whole.

It doesn’t feel like devastation. Just disorientation. Like someone peeled back a version of me I can’t put on anymore, leaving me raw and bare in a place that used to fit.

I stand in the entryway longer than I should, letting the silence settle around me. The kids are off at college now, busy with lives that don’t need me in the same way. My marriage ended without fireworks, just a slow unraveling until there was nothing left to stitch back together. No dramatic fight, no begging. Just two people who’d run out of road, staring at each other across a table that felt colder every night.

So here I am. Not because I wanted this house, but because there wasn’t anywhere else that made sense. My roots are buried in these walls, even if they’ve gone brittle with time. If I’m going to start over, it may as well be here.

I roll the suitcase farther in, the wheels catching on the worn rug. The sound carries through the empty space, sharp and lonely, bouncing off walls that haven’t heard footsteps in years. 

The word slips out before I can stop it, soft and almost questioning. “Home.” The walls don’t answer, only groan in the silence. And truthfully, it doesn’t feel like it yet, like I’m trying on a word that doesn’t fit anymore.

I leave the suitcase by the stairs and glance toward the living room. The dim space feels smaller with that armchair blocking the window, so I decide to start there. Maybe if I can clear the space, let some light in, it won’t feel so heavy.

I turn to the hall closet, hoping for something useful. The door creaks when I open it, and sure enough, the old toolbox is still tucked inside. A half-rusted thing, handles worn smooth, lid squealing when I pry it open. I haul it into the living room, already heavier than I expected, and set it beside the armchair.

The plan is simple, move the chair, let in some light. But the thing weighs more than it has any right to. I brace my shoulder against it, pushing with all the strength I have. It doesn’t budge. The sound that leaves me is half-grunt, half-groan, and when I finally step back, I can’t help but laugh under my breath. The sound dies in the empty room before it even has the chance to echo.

“Figures,” I mutter, brushing the hair from my face. If my ex were here, he’d find a way to make this about how impractical I am. He always did.

I look back at the chair, solid and immovable, and the truth settles low in my chest. No one’s coming to help me. Whatever gets done here, I’ll have to do it myself.

And that thought is heavier than the furniture.

By the time I give up, sweat prickles along my hairline. I head to the kitchen for a glass of water, letting it run, it’s cloudy, then clear, tasting faintly metallic when I take a sip. It isn’t refreshing, not really, but it’s something. Glass in hand, I push open the front door and step onto the porch, the wood groaning under my weight the same way it did when I was a teenager sneaking out after curfew. The late-afternoon sun is warm against my skin, but the breeze carries a sharp edge, crisp with pine and the faint tang of woods-moke from somewhere nearby.

I lean against the rail, sip slowly, and let my eyes wander across the street. That’s when I see a man.

At first, it’s just a figure, broad shoulders bent over something in the driveway, a pair of work gloves tugged on. He straightens, silver catching in his hair, movements deliberate and unhurried. My stomach drops before my mind can even catch up.

I know that profile.

Decades have passed, but it’s him. The boy who once swore he’d never let me go. Evan, the boy who left anyway.

Now he’s a man, older, weathered, with lines carved at the corners of his mouth. He glances over, eyes catching mine across the distance. The recognition is instant. His chin lifts slightly in acknowledgment, nothing more. No smile, no words. Just a nod before he turns, wipes his hands on a rag, and disappears into the shadow of his garage.

The glass shakes faintly in my hand. Old hurt rises sharp and fast, tangled with disbelief. Of all the places, of all the neighbors, why did it have to be him?

The sight of him lingers long after he’s gone, pulling me backward whether or not I want it. A flash of satin pink, the prom dress hanging on my closet door runs through my head. The phone ringing once, twice, then silence. My father’s voice, sharp as a whip, followed by the slam of a door that rattled the entie=re house.

I squeeze my eyes shut, gripping the porch rail until the wood bites into my palms. The past presses close, but I shove it back down. Not now. Not yet.

Still, I know it’s waiting. And I won’t be able to outrun it forever.

To be Continued. Come back tomorrow for part two

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: September 2025

Cover Design by LS Phoenix

Why Second-Chance Romance Hits Different

There’s something about running into an old flame that makes us all wonder: what if?

Second-chance romance is one of those tropes that never gets old, no matter how many times we read it. Maybe it’s because it taps into nostalgia—those first loves, the ones that shaped us even when they didn’t last. Or maybe it’s because the stakes feel higher. Time has passed. People have changed. And when two characters find their way back to each other, it’s not about reliving the past. It’s about choosing each other all over again, this time with a little more wisdom and a lot more heart.

I think what makes this trope so addictive is the mix of old wounds and new hope. There’s history between them—unfinished conversations, lingering questions, the heartbreak that once felt impossible to recover from. But there’s also possibility. They know what it feels like to lose each other, and that makes the pull to get it right this time even stronger.

And let’s be honest: who doesn’t love a redemption arc? Watching a character prove they’re not the same person who walked away before, watching them fight for love like it matters more than anything—that’s where the magic happens.

So here’s a question for you: if you could have coffee with one person from your past—just to see what might have been—would you take the chance?

Husband for Hire - Part 5: The Real Proposal

What started as a fake relationship was never supposed to turn into anything more. But Delaney can’t stop thinking about the man who kissed her like it meant something. The man who made her believe in forever—even if neither of them said it out loud. In this emotional final part, she’s done waiting. Done wondering. It’s time to find out if what they had was real—and if it still can be.

Husband for Hire - Part 5: The Real Proposal

She went looking for closure. What she found was forever.

Delany

I don’t know how long I’ve been staring at my phone.

Long enough that the screen keeps dimming, going black, then flashing awake again with nothing new. No messages. No calls. Just his name still sitting in my recent texts like it’s waiting for me to do something.

The apartment is too quiet. Too clean. I unpacked as soon as I got home, like staying busy might keep me from thinking. Tossed my clothes in the hamper. Wiped down the counters. Lit a candle. Something citrusy. Clean. Sharp. The kind of scent that makes you feel like you’ve got your shit together.

I don’t feel like I’ve got my shit together.

What I feel is…haunted. By the sound of his laugh when he made me smile without trying. By the heat in his voice when he whispered forever like it could actually mean something. By the weight of his body against mine, and how I didn’t want him to leave, but still let him walk out the door.

Because this was never supposed to be real.

That was the rule, wasn’t it?

But everything about him felt real. The quiet way he watched me when I wasn’t looking. The way his hand lingered at the small of my back even after the cameras were gone. The way he kissed me like he meant it. Like I mattered.

And maybe that’s the part that hurts the most.

Because what if I did?

What if all this time I’ve been protecting myself from the kind of pain that only comes from falling for something that was never mine to keep, but he didn’t see it that way?

What if I let him believe I didn’t care?

I sit back on the couch, phone still in my hand. My finger hovers over his contact, the tiny gray bubble waiting for a message that might never come.

I could reach out.

I could text him something simple. Ask if he made it home. Ask if he’s okay. Open the door to a conversation we both keep pretending we don’t want.

But I don’t.

I don’t delete his number either.

Instead, I set the phone on the coffee table, lean back, and close my eyes.

What if I didn’t let it end here? 

I grab my keys and head out the door. I don’t give myself time to think.

I just drive.

Faster than I probably should.

His address is still in my phone. I don’t remember saving it, but there it is, burned into my contacts like a dare. My hands are sweating on the wheel, heart in my throat as I pull into the narrow driveway of a building that looks far too normal for someone who felt like a fever dream.

My reflection catches in the rearview mirror, eyes wide, lips bare, a hint of red still staining my cheeks from the cold and the panic. I should’ve put on lipstick. I should’ve thought this through. I should’ve done a dozen things differently.

But I’m here now.

And if I turn around, I’ll never come back.

I force myself to get out, legs shaky as I climb the steps to his door. Three knocks. Light. Then louder. Then I’m standing there like an idiot, wondering if he’ll even answer, wondering if he’s home, wondering what the hell I’m doing.

The door opens mid-thought.

He’s in jeans and a henley, barefoot, hair a little tousled like he’s been running his hands through it.

“Delaney?”

His voice is soft and curious.  But not surprised. 

“I—uh—hi.” I wave. God, I actually wave. “Hi.”

He blinks once. “Hey.”

There’s a beat of silence between us. Not tense. Not hostile. Just… open. Waiting. Like he’s giving me room to fill it.

“I didn’t plan this,” I say quickly. “Well. That’s a lie. I did. I planned it the whole drive here, and now all the words I practiced sound like garbage, so I’m gonna start over.”

His mouth tips up at the corner. “Okay.”

“I don’t want to do this halfway,” I blurt. “I thought I did. I thought keeping it pretend meant it couldn’t hurt, but then it did hurt, and that didn’t make sense because fake things aren’t supposed to leave bruises, and—” I groan and press a hand to my forehead. “See? Garbage.”

“Not garbage,” he says. “Just… messy.”

“Yeah, well, I’m kind of a mess right now.”

He leans against the frame, eyes scanning mine. “Why are you here, Laney?”

My stomach flips at the nickname. “Because I don’t want this to be over.”

A pause. His breath catches, but just slightly.

“I kept telling myself it wasn’t real,” I continue. “That you were just playing a part. That I was just playing along. That what happened between us didn’t mean anything. But it did, Beau. It meant something to me.”

He opens the door wider, stepping back. “Come in.”

I hesitate. Just long enough to look up at him and see it. The softness in his eyes. The tension in his jaw. The hope he’s trying to hide.

I step over the threshold.

The door clicks softly shut behind me.

Inside, the apartment is clean, warm. Minimalist furniture, muted tones, and a faint scent of cedar and aftershave. It’s him. Just like I remembered from the hotel. Just like I tried not to remember at all.

“I don’t know what you’re expecting from me,” he says quietly.

“I’m not expecting anything. I’m… asking.”

His brows lift, cautious. “Asking for what?”

“For a chance.” My voice wobbles. “I don’t want a husband for hire. I want you.”

Silence stretches.

Then his jaw ticks, and he steps closer, slow, deliberate, like he’s making sure I won’t spook.

“Say it again.”

My breath catches.

“I want you.”

His eyes close like it hurts. Like it heals. Maybe both.

“Shit,” he mutters, and when he looks at me again, something’s broken open behind his gaze. “You don’t get to say that unless you mean it, Delaney. Because if you do… I’m yours.”

“I do mean it.”

Another beat. Another step.

Then his voice drops, low and raw. “No pretending?”

“No more pretending.”

He exhales hard.

And then he’s kissing me like he’s been waiting his whole life for me to show up at his door.

He doesn’t let go right away.

Just holds me there in his arms, like he’s grounding himself. Like maybe he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he moves too fast.

His hand is still at my waist. His lips brush my forehead once, soft and slow. “You sure?”

I nod before I can talk myself out of it. “I’m sure I’m not sure about anything except this. I don’t know what it looks like. I just know it’s you.”

A quiet exhale leaves him, like something heavy just loosened in his chest.

“I haven’t stopped thinking about you,” he says, voice rough. “Not once.”

A flicker of emotion crosses his face. Like hope. Like disbelief. “I didn’t think I’d see you again. I never thought you’d come here.”

“I almost didn’t.” My voice cracks. “But I couldn’t stop thinking about you either. About how it felt when you touched me like I meant something to you. When you said it wasn’t pretend.”

He exhales, almost like it hurts. “It wasn’t. Not once.”

I nod, throat too tight to speak, heart pounding like it’s trying to climb its way out of my chest. “I don’t want a fake husband, Beau.”

His brow lifts.

“I want you,” I whisper, still caught in between his arms.

His jaw flexes. He leans in, forehead resting against mine, voice low and rough.

“Say it again.”

My breath shudders out. “I want you.”

He groans, deep and quiet, like the words cracked something open.  His fingers twitch against my waist. For a second, he looks away, jaw tight like he’s fighting some invisible battle. Like he’s weighing everything he’s not sure he deserves.

Then his eyes find mine again, and I see it—the decision. The surrender.“You have me.”

His kiss is slow. Deep. Meant to be remembered.

Not like the others, not like heat overtaking thought, or lust driving motion. This one is quiet and anchoring, like he’s reminding me who I am. Who I get to be. His lips move against mine like he’s learning me all over again. Tasting the truth in every breath.

When he finally pulls back, we’re both breathless.

“Tell me what you want,” he murmurs, his forehead resting on mine.

“You.” My hands slip beneath the edge of his T-shirt. “I want you to show me it was never fake.”

He lifts his shirt in one smooth motion, tossing it aside without breaking eye contact.

Then he reaches for me, slow, deliberate, and slips his hand into mine.

“Come here.”

He leads me down the quiet hallway, into the soft hush of the bedroom, where the air feels heavier somehow. More loaded.

And when we stop at the edge of the bed, he turns, gaze sweeping over me like he’s committing this moment to memory.

“Still sure?”

My answer is a whisper. “Yes.”

He closes the space between us, and this time, we don’t stop.

“Slow this time,” he says, dragging his knuckles up my thighs. “No hotel room. No deadlines. Just you and me.”

I nod, already unraveling.

The air in the bedroom feels charged, like the room itself is holding its breath. He watches me step out of my jeans, eyes tracking every movement with aching reverence. His throat bobs as I slide my top over my head.

“You’re so damn beautiful,” he murmurs, and the awe in his voice sends heat rolling across my skin.

He peels away my clothes with deliberate care, kissing each newly bared inch of skin like a promise. My breath hitches as he mouths over my ribs, down the dip of my stomach, his stubble scraping softly, his hands never leaving me. Every move is reverent, almost unbearably tender. Like he’s making up for every moment we lost.

He doesn’t rush.

He maps me.

Worships me.

When his mouth descends between my thighs, my hips jerk violently, a helpless gasp tearing from my throat as his tongue flicks over my clit, slow at first, then deliberate, like he already knows exactly how to ruin me.

“Beau—”

“Let me,” he murmurs, settling deeper. “I want to taste what’s mine.”

His tongue moves with devastating skill, slow circles that build and break me. My hands tangle in his hair, my moans spilling too easily. He pins my hips with one arm, holding me down, drawing every last tremor from my body until I’m boneless and trembling and begging.

“Come here,” I whisper, breathless. “Now.”

He rises over me, shedding the rest of his clothes, eyes locked on mine. “This doesn’t end in the morning.”

“I know.”

He lines up, the tip of his cock brushing where I’m soaked and ready. “If I sink into you, Delaney…” His voice breaks. “You’re mine forever.”

“I already am.”

When he pushes in, it’s slow and deep. Like he’s claiming me cell by cell.

The moan that leaves him is primal. “You feel like home.”

My hands grip his back, nails digging in as he starts to move, long, steady strokes that have me gasping. His name leaves my lips like a prayer, and when I whisper, “Forever,” he groans, his pace stuttering.

His forehead drops to mine. “Say that again.”

“Forever. Yours.”

His mouth crushes mine, hips snapping harder now, his control fraying as we fall apart together, this time not with desperation, but with certainty.

When I come, it’s with his name on my tongue and the word real echoing through me like a drumbeat.

He follows with a growl, burying himself deep, shaking as he releases everything he’s been holding back.

My breath comes in shudders, my skin flushed and damp, muscles still twitching beneath his weight. His hand slides up, warm and broad, spreading over my stomach like he’s anchoring me in place. I reach for him, fingertips brushing his jaw, and he turns into the touch like he needs it, like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he lets go.

“Still with me?” he murmurs.

I nod, too spent to speak, but the look in his eyes says everything. He sees me. All of me. And he’s not going anywhere.

We stay like that for a while. Wrapped in the kind of silence that doesn’t need to be filled.

Eventually, he pulls back just enough to look at me.

“So what now?”

I smile, tracing his jaw. “Now we start for real.”

The End

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: September 2025

Cover Design by LS Phoenix

Husband for Hire - Part 4: The Almost Ending

She hired him to play the part of her perfect husband.

She didn’t expect to want more than the fantasy.

In Part 4 of Husband for Hire, Delaney and Beau are down to their final night. The plan was simple: end the weekend, walk away clean. But nothing feels simple now—not with the way he looks at her, touches her, claims her.

This wasn’t supposed to be real.

And yet… here they are.

Husband for Hire - Part 4: The Almost Ending

It was supposed to be fake until he made her choose.

Delaney

I swipe on lipstick I don’t need and ignore the tremble in my hand. Red. Bold. Like confidence I don’t feel.

The mirror lies beautifully tonight.

Hair curled. Eyes sharp. Smile forced.

I look like a woman who’s in control of the situation. A woman who’s playing the part. A woman who didn’t wake up wrapped around the man she hired and liked it a little too much.

I tuck the lipstick away, press my palms to the counter, and breathe.

We go home tomorrow.

This charade ends tomorrow.

One more night.

When I step into the suite, Beau is already inside—fresh from the shower, barefoot, a dress shirt hanging open over his chest and a black tie draped loosely around his neck. One hand grips the end of it, rolling the fabric between his fingers like he’s debating whether to finish the job or let me come do it for him. His gaze flicks up when he sees me, slow and steady, like he’s taking inventory of every inch of bare skin the dress doesn’t cover.

His jaw tightens. His tongue runs over his bottom lip like he’s trying to taste me from across the room.

I wait for him to say something smug. Make a joke. Flash that crooked smile and knock me off balance like he has been.

But he doesn’t.

He just watches.

Quiet. Still.

And I hate how much it gets to me.

“Last night of the performance,” I say, too brightly. “Might as well go out with a bang.”

The corner of his mouth lifts. “That what you’re offering, Delaney’?”

God, that voice.

The way he says my name like it’s permission and promise all at once.

He’s still holding the tie.

Still watching me like he already knows how this ends.

I cross the room slowly, every step louder in my head than it is on the floor. My fingers brush his, taking the silk from his hand. “You don’t know how to tie this, do you?”

He shrugs, lazy. “I know how to untie one. That count?”

I roll my eyes, but my breath’s already shallow. “Come here.”

He steps closer, a little too close.

And I swear he does it on purpose, moving into my personal space like he’s claiming it.

I loop the tie around his neck, fingers brushing the warm skin just beneath his throat. Instead of looking away, he just watches me with those dark eyes, every second dragging out like he wants me to feel it.

I try to focus on the knot, but his hand lands on my hip. Light. Casual. Anchoring.

“You always get this flustered dressing a man?” he murmurs, voice low and lethal.

“I’m not flustered.”

“Your hands are shaking.”

“They are not.”

He leans in. “You’re also clenching your thighs… again.”

I go still.

His grin deepens. “Thought I wouldn’t notice?”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re dripping want all over the floor, baby.”

That’s it.

That’s the line that does it. That snaps the last string holding my composure together.

I walk past him toward the bedroom, hips swaying just a little too much, playing a game I don’t remember starting. “I’m offering one night where we don’t have to think too hard.”

Behind me, the silence is thick.

Then he moves.

His hands are on me before I make it to the bed, hot and sure, pulling me back against him like he’s been waiting all day. My breath catches as his mouth finds my neck, slow and reverent, lips brushing just behind my ear.

“You want me to pretend tonight?” he murmurs.

I shake my head. “No.”

“Good,” he says, hands already skimming under my dress. “’Cause I’m not sure I could.”

We don’t make it to the bed right away.

My dress is pushed up. His pants are tugged down. My back hits the nearest surface, a wall, cool and solid, and he’s between my legs before I can find my footing.

His hand slides up my thigh, fingers digging in just enough to make me gasp. His body tenses, just for a breath.

“I don’t do this,” he says, voice low and rough, almost like he’s trying to talk himself out of it. “I don’t sleep with clients. That’s the rule.”

I don’t move. Don’t breathe.

His eyes lock on mine. “But if I sink into you like this… you’re mine.”

Something catches in my throat.

I nod. Whisper, “Okay.”

And then he’s moving.

It’s slow.

Like every inch he takes is a decision. A claim.

He groans when he finally sinks into me, forehead dropping to mine, both of us breathing hard like we can’t catch up.

“Yours,” I breathe.

His grip tightens, hips flexing just enough to draw another gasp from my lips.

“You feel like sin,” he mutters. “You have NO idea how much I’ve been starving for this.”

My nails dig into his shoulders as he rocks into me, deep and steady. No rush. No games. Just the unbearable rhythm of something that feels too close to real.

I kiss him like I’m drowning.

He kisses me like he wants to save me.

And somewhere in the middle, I forget that this ends.

I forget that I hired him.

That tomorrow, we go back to being strangers who only ever pretended to belong to each other.

But right now, he feels like mine.

His hands gripping my thighs. His name slipping from my lips. His mouth claiming every moan like he earned it.

And maybe he did.

We make it to the bed eventually, tangled and breathless, bodies slick with sweat and want. He pulls me beneath him, thrusts growing deeper, slower, like he’s trying to memorize how I come apart.

Somewhere between kisses and gasps, clothes disappear, torn away by need or tugged off with impatience, I couldn’t say. His hands are everywhere, rough palms on bare skin, lips dragging across places I didn’t know were so sensitive until he found them.

And when I do come apart?

It’s a collapse.

Full-body. Shuddering. Broken open.

I clutch at his shoulders like I’ll drown without him, whispering, “Don’t stop. Don’t ever stop.”

He groans, the sound wrecked and reverent.

“I want you,” I breathe, forehead pressed to his. “God, I want you…”

Maybe I whisper forever. Maybe I mean it.

He buries his face in my neck, whispering something I can’t hear over the pounding in my chest.

We don’t speak for a long time after.

Eventually, I roll away.

And this time, he doesn’t pull me back.

He just watches me in the dark.

Like he already knows I’m slipping through his fingers.

Like he already knew I would.

…………

I wake up to the soft hush of water running.

The suite is quiet otherwise, dim light creeping in around the heavy curtains, the bed still warm beside me. I press a hand to the sheets where Beau had been, still able to feel him in the cotton and in my chest.

Last night feels like a fever dream. A slow, steady undoing that unraveled more than just clothes.

It unraveled me.

I sit up slowly, the ache between my thighs a reminder of everything I told myself not to want. My body’s sated but my heart’s a goddamn disaster.

By the time I slide out of bed and step into the main room, he’s already there. Dressed in jeans and a soft gray button-down, barefoot but somehow still put together. His hair is damp from the shower. His phone is plugged in beside the couch. And his duffel bag is half-zipped on the armchair.

He looks up when I enter.

There’s no smile. No smirk. Just that unreadable expression that makes me feel like I’m the one being studied.

I tug on a pair of soft jeans and a plain white T-shirt, nothing like what I wore last night. No makeup. No earrings. Just me. Small and aching and trying not to fold.

He doesn’t speak, so I do.

“I think it’s time you go.”

It comes out flat. Colder than I mean. But if I let softness in, I might never get it out.

Beau nods once, slow and steady. “Okay.”

That’s it.

No questions. No protest. Just quiet agreement like he expected this. Like he knew I’d do it the moment things got too real.

I cross my arms. “The trip’s over. You don’t have to play the part anymore.”

He lifts a brow, calm. “Didn’t think I was.”

My throat tightens. “It was never supposed to feel real.”

He moves to zip the rest of his bag. “Maybe that’s the problem.”

I swallow hard. “Don’t do that.”

“What am I doing?”

“Acting like I’m breaking your heart.”

He turns then. Faces me fully. His jaw is tight, but his voice is soft. “You’re not breaking my heart,” he says softly. “That already happened.

God.

I shift my weight, suddenly unsteady. “Beau—”

“I get it,” he says, cutting me off. “You hired me. I was a solution to a problem. I knew the terms. But don’t stand there and pretend last night was nothing.”

“I didn’t mean for it to happen.”

“Yeah. Me neither.” He exhales, running a hand through his hair. “But it did. And I’m not gonna be the guy who tries to convince you to want more than you’re ready for.”

He slings his bag over his shoulder. Looks around the room like he’s leaving a life behind, not just a hotel suite.

At the door, he pauses.

“I wasn’t pretending,” he says quietly. “Not with you. Not last night. Not once.”

My heart stutters. “Beau—”

But he’s already gone.

The door clicks softly behind him.

And I stand there in the silence, arms wrapped around my middle, trying to convince myself this is what I wanted. That sending him away is the smart choice.

That my chest doesn’t feel like it’s cracking open from the inside.

That the thing we shared was just part of the package I paid for.

But my skin still smells like him. My lips still burn.

And nothing about this feels fake anymore.

The door clicks shut behind him, and for a second, I just stare at it.

Like maybe it’ll open again.

Like maybe he’ll come back and say it was a mistake. That I misunderstood. That none of it was real.

But it doesn’t. And he doesn’t.

I stand there longer than I should, the silence expanding in the space between us, only now it’s not space, it’s absence. Loud and echoing.

The hotel suite feels bigger without him. Colder. Like everything that happened has already started fading, and I hate how badly I want to pull it back.

I turn slowly, letting my gaze drift across the room. The rumpled sheets that still smell like him, cedar and heat and something I probably won’t ever be able to define. There’s a jacket he didn’t wear draped over the armchair. The glass on the nightstand holds two perfect fingerprints I can’t stop staring at.

I sit at the edge of the bed, fingers lacing tightly in my lap.

This was supposed to be easy.

Hire a husband. Smile for the weekend. Close the deal. Go home.

He wasn’t supposed to look at me like that.

Touch me like that.

Make me feel like maybe I was the one pretending all along.

I try to shake it off. Stand. Walk to the desk. My phone lights up with a message from my client, just a casual check-in about how the deal is going. I read it three times and still can’t remember a single word of it. My thumbs hover over the screen, but I don’t type anything back.

The knot in my chest is spreading. Tight and warm and unfamiliar.

It’s not heartbreak.

It’s something worse.

It’s regret.

I walk back to the bed, slower this time. Sink into the same spot I slept in last night, where his arm had curled around me the other night, like he meant it. Like maybe I wasn’t alone in this.

I glance at the empty pillow beside me. Still creased from where his head had rested.

“I didn’t want it to be real,” I whisper.

And then softer, like it’s a confession I can’t take back—

“…until it was.”

The room doesn’t answer. Just hums with quiet and consequence.

I grab my phone again. Open our messages. Scroll past the flirty texts, the first confirmation, the screenshot of the ridiculous contract.

My finger hovers over the keyboard.

I could say it. I could ask him to come back.

I could tell him I didn’t mean it. That it wasn’t just pretend for me either.

But I don’t.

Not yet.

Instead, I lock the screen and drop the phone beside me.

Then I lie back on the bed, close my eyes, and try not to remember the way his voice had cracked when he said goodbye.

To be Continued. Come back tomorrow for part five

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: September 2025

Cover Design by LS Phoenix

 

Husband for Hire – Part Three: The Line Blurs

Delaney was determined to keep her distance. One bed. Clear rules. No touching. But when proximity becomes heat and heat turns into something she can’t ignore, all those boundaries start to blur.

Now she’s wide awake, sharing a bed with a man who isn’t hers—and kissing him like she wants to break every rule they agreed on. The only problem? She was never supposed to feel like this. 

Husband for Hire – Part Three: The Line Blurs

It was never just pretend.

Delaney

The bathroom is filled with steam and shame.

I tug on the most aggressively unsexy pajamas I packed, an oversized T-shirt from a 10K I never ran and a pair of plaid pajama pants that make me look like a cranky lumberjack. Perfect.

Hair tied up. Face clean. Absolutely nothing to tempt a hired husband who looks like he was carved from temptation itself.

When I step back into the suite, the lights are low and Beau’s already in bed, shirtless, of course, because of course he is. The sheets are pulled low across his hips, his arm thrown over the pillow like he belongs here. Like this is normal.

Like this isn’t the worst idea I’ve ever had.

I crawl into bed on my assigned side and face away from him like that’ll help. The mattress dips when I shift. I swear I hear him smirk.

I clutch the edge of the comforter like it’s a boundary line. As long as I stay right here, on my half, facing the wall, wearing pajamas that scream platonic energy, I’ll be fine.

Except I can feel him.

He’s not touching me. Not even close. But his presence drips through the silence like a slow leak. Warm. Steady. Impossible to ignore. Every shift he makes beneath the sheets pulls at my focus like a hook behind my ribs.

The bed is huge. We could build a pillow fort between us and never brush knees.

And yet… he feels closer than he should.

“So,” he says into the dark. “No sexy little nightie?”

“I don’t hate myself enough to let you see me in one.”

He chuckles. “You think I need lace to want to look at you?”

I squeeze my eyes shut. “We are not doing this.”

“Doing what?”

“Flirting. Talking. Breathing in the same direction.”

“Bit late for that last one.”

Silence stretches between us. I roll to my back, eyes on the ceiling. He doesn’t say anything else, and I think maybe…maybe I’ve won. Until his voice cuts back in, softer now.

“You always sleep this stiff?”

I huff. “You always talk this much before bed?”

“Only when I’m thinking.”

I bite. “Thinking about what?”

A pause. Then—

“You.”

That one word hits like a sucker punch to the chest. Not teasing. Not smug. Just quietly honest.

I swallow. “You don’t have to keep up the act when no one’s watching.”

“I’m not acting,” he says simply. “Not right now.”

I roll to my side—still facing away—but my heart’s hammering. Because the truth is, I can’t tell what’s fake anymore. Not his voice. Not the warmth in it. Not the way my body responds like it’s been waiting for him this whole time.

I tell myself to ignore it.

I don’t.

…………

I wake up slowly.

The room is dark, lit only by the soft orange glow of a streetlamp bleeding through the curtains. I blink once. Twice. It takes me a minute to remember where I am. Blackwood Ridge. Honeymoon suite. Fake husband.

My body feels too warm. My skin buzzes. And something’s… off.

Except… no. Not off.

Different.

I shift just enough to glance around, and that’s when I feel it.

His knee, brushing mine beneath the covers. His breath, slow and even. His hand—low on my waist, heavy and possessive in a way that shouldn’t undo me the way it does.

There’s no wall of pillows between us. No sharp line drawn down the bed like I promised myself I’d keep. Just heat and proximity and that damn cologne that clings to everything he touches.

I’m not facing the wall anymore. I’m facing him.

And somewhere between pretending to sleep and trying to forget how good he smells, I must’ve shifted closer. Because our knees are brushing beneath the covers, and his hand is resting just shy of my hip, fingers curled loosely against the space between us.

I freeze.

It’s not much. Not really. Just a light touch through a layer of blankets and cheap plaid pajamas.

But it feels like much. Too much. The weight of his hand, the accidental drag of his fingers against the dip of my waist, the way his thumb twitches ever so slightly like his body’s thinking for him. Enough to make heat curl low in my belly like a stretch of wildfire just waiting for oxygen.

I tell myself it’s muscle memory. Sleep reflexes. Nothing more.

But my body doesn’t buy it.

Because my breath catches. My heart stutters. Every nerve sharpens like it’s been waiting for him to touch me and 

I should move.

Instead, I hold perfectly still, like maybe if I don’t breathe too hard, it won’t count.

His hand shifts slightly. Slides.

Not intentional, not even fully conscious, but enough to press against the curve of my waist now, his palm heavy and hot through the thin fabric of my shirt.

And still, I don’t move.

Because my body is reacting before my brain catches up. Skin prickling, thighs tightening, pulse tapping an unsteady rhythm in my throat.

He mumbles something.

Low. Rough. Sleep-slurred and quiet enough I almost miss it.

“Darlin’…”

My whole body reacts.

Heat flashes up my spine. My stomach flips. My thighs press together on instinct like they’re trying to trap something in—or maybe hold something back. I press my lips together, hard, like it’ll stop the sound from settling somewhere I really don’t want it to go.

It’s the voice. That deep, gravel-soaked murmur. The kind that could talk me into damn near anything.

And the worst part?

I don’t even think he’s dreaming about someone else.

I think he’s dreaming about me.

It’s not a question. Just a sound. Soft and familiar and so real that I feel it everywhere.

I bite down on the inside of my cheek, fighting the ridiculous warmth spreading across my chest. I don’t even like being called that.

Except from him.

In that voice.

In bed.

I close my eyes again. Try to will myself back to sleep. Try to remember that this is fake. That the man curled up beside me is paid to make it feel real. That this means nothing.

But God… it feels like something.

The way he’s breathing, steady and even. The way he instinctively shifted closer in the night like his body knew mine was there. The way my heart won’t slow down no matter how many times I whisper this is nothing in my head.

I know I should shift back. Reclaim my side of the bed. Rebuild the wall I spent all night holding up.

But I don’t.

Because right now, just for a breath, just for a heartbeat, this doesn’t feel fake. It doesn’t feel like I hired a man to pretend he wants me.

It feels like he does.

And maybe I want to believe that a little too much.

So I lie there, still and burning and quietly falling apart, and I let him touch me.

Just for a little while.

I can’t sleep.

Not with the weight of his hand still lingering on my waist. Not with the echo of that voice in the dark, that name ‘darlin’, looping through my head like a siren call.

I shift for the fifth time, then throw the covers off and slide out of bed, careful not to disturb him. He doesn’t move. Just stays wrapped in the same heat and stillness I left behind.

The suite is cold in the way hotel rooms always are, quiet and unfamiliar. I cross to the kitchenette and pour myself a glass of water with shaky hands. My body’s still humming, my skin still aware of where he touched me, even in sleep.

I lean back against the counter, sip slowly, and try to breathe. Try to reset.

“Couldn’t sleep?”

I jump, nearly sloshing the water down my shirt.

Beau’s standing in the doorway, all sleepy eyes and shirtless sin, like he just stepped out of some twisted dream I didn’t ask to have. His hair is tousled. His voice is rough. And his sweatpants ride low enough that I actively have to look up to be appropriate.

“Jesus,” I hiss. “Do you have to sneak around like a damn panther?”

He grins, slow and lazy. “Didn’t mean to scare you. Just noticed you were gone.”

“I’m fine,” I say quickly. “Just… couldn’t sleep.”

He nods and crosses the room toward me like it’s no big deal, like he’s not barely dressed and smelling like the faintest hint of his cologne. He leans his hip against the opposite counter, arms crossed loosely over his chest.

“You always run this hot?” he asks, eyes flicking down to the glass in my hand.

“You’re the one radiating heat like a human furnace.”

“Can’t help it,” he says, voice still thick with sleep. “You get used to sharing a bed and your body just reacts to what’s next to it.”

I lift my chin. “Even when it’s not real?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

Instead, he looks at me. Really looks at me. And something about the silence stretches too long. Something about the air shifts. My throat tightens.

I glance away, needing a buffer. “This was easier when you were an idea and not a six-foot-three problem in my bed.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Still just a man, Delaney.”

“That’s the problem,” I whisper.

He’s quiet again. Then, slowly, he steps forward.

Not in a rush or trying to intimidate. Just… closing the space between us.

His hand comes up, fingers brushing a loose strand of hair behind my ear. He lingers, trailing along my jaw like he’s memorizing it. My breath catches.

“I’m not trying to mess you up,” he says softly.

“Too late,” I breathe.

And then I lean in, or maybe he does. Maybe we both do.

But suddenly his mouth is on mine, slow and sure, like he’s not just kissing me, he’s learning me. As if every angle and sigh and hesitation is something he wants to study, not conquer.

My hands find his chest, fingers curling in the soft fabric of his pants where they bunch at his hips. His tongue brushes mine, and I melt into it, into him.

It’s not rough. It’s not urgent.

It’s worse.

It’s good.

I kiss him back harder, just once, long enough to feel the shift. The spark. The danger.

Then I break the kiss, breath coming fast, and put my hand on his chest to stop him before I stop myself.

“This is too much,” I say, barely louder than a whisper.

He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t push. Just stays close, watching me with those too-knowing eyes, like he already saw this coming.

I back away, slowly.

He lets me go.

And as I turn and walk toward the bedroom—heart racing, skin buzzing, rules crumbling in my hands—I can’t stop the thought that follows me all the way back to bed.stop the thought that follows me all the way back to bed.

This was never supposed to feel like this.

To be Continued. Come back tomorrow for part four

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: September 2025

Cover Design by LS Phoenix

Husband for Hire – Part Two: Fake Husband, Real Heat

Delaney knew faking a relationship wouldn’t be easy—but she didn’t expect her hired husband to be this good at it. Now they’re checked into a honeymoon suite, sharing one bed, and selling their “love story” a little too convincingly.

Between the flirty smiles, accidental touches, and pet names that hit way too hard, it’s getting harder to remember this isn’t real. And when the heat rises behind closed doors? Well… she might be in way more trouble than she thought. 

Husband for Hire – Part Two: Fake Husband, Real Heat

It’s just pretend—so why does it feel like foreplay?

Delaney

The moment we step into the resort lobby, Beau laces our fingers together like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

I stare down at our joined hands like they betrayed me. Which, technically, mine did. Because instead of yanking away or pretending I forgot how to use fingers, I let him do it. Worse… I kind of like it.

“You’re staring,” he murmurs under his breath.

“You ambushed my hand.”

“I’m playing the part, sweetheart.” He lifts our hands and kisses the back of mine, eyes twinkling with mischief. “You hired a husband. I’m just giving you your money’s worth.”

I mentally calculate how much I’m paying for this and wonder if I should’ve sprung for the less charming option.

Beau is annoyingly good at this.

The concierge takes one look at us and gives a knowing smile. “Checking in?”

“Yes, under Masters,” I say, then immediately realize what that sounds like. I clear my throat. “Delaney Masters. One room.”

“Got it,” she says, tapping away. “Honeymoon suite, just like the reservation.”

I blink. “Wait… what?”

Beau’s arm snakes around my waist before I can panic. “Perfect,” he says smoothly. “Nothing like a weekend of romance in the mountains, right, baby?”

He says baby like it’s a four-letter sin, low and slow and just for me. My stomach flips. My brain short-circuits. I briefly forget how to speak.

“Oh,” I manage, voice doing that high-pitched thing I hate. “Right. Yes. So romantic.”

She hands over the keycards with a wink. “Champagne’s already in the room. Enjoy yourselves.”

As we head for the elevator, I hiss under my breath, “Honeymoon suite?”

Beau grins. “Not my fault the agency likes to go above and beyond.”

“You could’ve corrected her.”

“I could’ve,” he says, that damn smirk creeping back. “But technically, we did just get married. Might as well enjoy the honeymoon.” Then winks at me.

I just blink at him, my mouth parting to say something but nothing comes out.

The elevator doors slide shut. We’re alone now, our reflection staring back from polished steel.

Beau leans casually against the wall, watching me with a smirk like he’s sizing up just how much trouble he plans to cause.

I fold my arms. “There better be two beds.”

“There’s not.”

I glare.

He shrugs. “It’s a king. We’ll stay on our respective sides.”

“Oh, so now you’re a gentleman.”

“I’m always a gentleman.” He pauses. “Unless you ask me not to be.”

I look away so he doesn’t see how red my face is.

The doors open on the fourth floor, and he gestures for me to step out first, all chivalrous confidence and infuriating charm.

“After you, Mrs. Carter.”

I whip my head around. “We are not doing that.”

His grin goes lazy. Dangerous. “We’re married, baby. Might as well enjoy the perks.”

And just like that, he presses a hand to the small of my back and guides me down the hall.

My skin burns where he touches me.

And we haven’t even made it to the damn room yet.

The door clicks open with a soft beep, and I step inside, mentally preparing for something modest.

It is not modest.

There’s a fireplace. A fur throw. A bed big enough to host a six-person cuddle cult. Rose petals, not a lot, but enough to imply someone really leaned into the honeymoon thing. A bottle of chilled champagne rests in an ice bucket beside two flutes on a tray.

“Oh my God,” I breathe. “They actually went full honeymoon suite.”

Beau drops his bag by the armchair and whistles low. “Damn. You sure know how to treat a guy.”

“I didn’t request this.”

“The agency did,” he says, eyeing the bed like it just presented a personal challenge. “I assume it’s part of the romantic illusion. You know, ‘look like love, sell the dream,’ that kind of thing.”

I drop my purse onto the dresser and mutter, “I was aiming for ‘stable power couple,’ not ‘softcore honeymoon special.’”

He chuckles behind me, and I feel it between my legs like a buzz of heat I can’t ignore.

“You’re tense,” he says, walking farther into the room. “Nervous about the retreat? Or nervous about sharing a bed with me?”

I spin around, pointing at him. “No smug husband-y seduction tactics. We have rules.”

He raises both hands like he’s surrendering. “You got it. Just here to hold your hand and pretend I don’t fantasize about you when I shower.”

“Beau.”

“What?” His eyes gleam. “I’m not breaking the rules. I’m just making it harder for you to remember them.”

I grab the champagne bottle and shove it into the mini fridge. “You’re sleeping on the left side.”

“That’s my good side anyway.”

I ignore him. Or I try to.

But as he unbuttons his sleeves and rolls them up, I catch myself staring again. At his forearms. The veins. The ink. The subtle flex of muscle.

And just like that, my body betrays me all over again.

One weekend. That’s all this is.

Just three days of pretending we’re something we’re not.

So why the hell does it already feel too good to fake?

…………

Beau’s hand finds mine as soon as we step into the cocktail mixer.

It’s confident. Deliberate. The kind of touch meant to be noticed. He laces our fingers like he’s been doing it for years, like this is muscle memory, like I’m his.

He leans in slightly and says against my temple, “Time to sell it, sweetheart.”

And then he smiles.

It’s the kind of smile that should come with a warning label. Warm and slow and lethal in its aim. A few heads turn. I feel more than one woman sizing him up. I get it. I’d do the same if I didn’t already want to throw myself down a flight of stairs for hiring a man this attractive to pretend to love me.

“Two glasses of the sparkling rosé,” he says to the bartender with easy charm. Then, to me, “Unless you want something stronger, babe?”

Babe.

Oh, we’re already doing pet names.

I shake my head, pasting on a smile. “Rosé is perfect, darling.”

His smirk ticks higher. “Look at you. Fully committed.”

“You started it.”

“I finish things too.”

My face heats. I take my glass the second it lands on the bar and sip like it’s a distraction, not an excuse to keep my mouth busy while I think about his.

We mingle. Smile. Shake hands. And through it all, Beau doesn’t drop character once.

He laughs when I laugh. Holds my hand like he’s doing it absentmindedly. Resting his palm on my lower back. Brushing my hair behind my ear. Whispering something in my ear just to make me react.

Every touch is subtle. Soft. Intentional.

And worse, I can’t tell if he’s performing for them or just enjoying watching me squirm.

“You good?” he asks softly, stepping just close enough that his chest brushes mine.

I nod, but it’s not convincing. “You’re very… good at this.”

He grins. “You expected less?”

“I expected you to be a prop, not a method actor.”

He laughs. “Sorry, sweetheart. I don’t do anything halfway.”

Before I can answer, a familiar voice cuts in.

“Delaney?”

I turn and it’s Vanessa Carver. Keller’s marketing lead. The one who told me my social media presence was “a bit too independent for someone selling traditional values.” She’s holding a glass of white wine and wearing a tight smile that screams judgment.

“Vanessa, hi,” I say, surprised I don’t choke on it. “Didn’t expect to see you at the welcome mixer.”

“Robert insisted,” she says coolly, then glances at Beau. “And you are…?”

Beau steps in seamlessly. “Beau Carter. Delaney’s husband.”

Her eyebrows lift. “Oh. I hadn’t realized you were married.”

Beau smiles like she just complimented his jawline. “Five years. Feels like fifty, right, babe?”

I almost laugh, but it comes out as a snort.

“We met at a client mixer just like this,” I say, going with it. “He spilled champagne on my shoes. I called him an asshole. He offered to pay for dry cleaning and a drink. I took the drink.”

Beau grins at her. “And then she never stopped taking my drinks or my money.”

Vanessa doesn’t laugh, but she smiles, just barely. “Well, I suppose it’s nice to see something working.”

As she turns to walk away, Beau slides an arm around my waist and murmurs against my cheek, “We nailed that.”

My heart is thudding. My skin feels flushed. And I’m not sure if it’s the wine, the praise, or the fact that I liked the way he held me just a little too much.

He’s still close. Still looking at me like I’m not entirely off-limits.

“You okay?” he asks again, lower this time. “You’re breathing hard.”

“I’m fine,” I lie. “Just playing the part.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.

“You sure about that?”

Because the problem is…

I’m not.

…………

I don’t say a word until the door to our suite clicks shut behind us.

Then I spin.

“What was that?”

Beau raises an eyebrow as he shrugs out of his blazer. “That,” he says, calmly, like he didn’t just make my ovaries do gymnastics in front of half the PR elite, “was called acting.”

“You had your hand on my ass,” I snap, pacing the room like it personally offended me. “You told that woman we met because you spilled champagne on me. I liked that story.”

He starts unbuttoning his shirt one slow notch at a time. “You’re welcome.”

“I wasn’t thanking you.”

“No, but you’re still thinking about it.”

I freeze mid-pace. “You’re full of yourself.”

He smiles, and I wish I didn’t like the way it looks on him, relaxed and wicked, like he’s got every upper hand and knows I’m five seconds away from throwing myself at his very smug chest.

“You were perfect,” I mutter, finally sitting down on the edge of the bed. “Too perfect.”

He tosses the shirt over a chair, leaving him in a white ribbed tank that clings to his chest and shoulders in a way that should be illegal.

“Careful,” he says, walking past me to grab a bottle of water from the fridge. “Sounds like you’re developing a crush.”

“I’m not.” That came out way too fast. “I’m just saying… you’re dangerously good at being a fake husband.”

He takes a long sip and leans against the counter. “That’s what you hired me for.”

“And the touching?”

“That’s also what you hired me for.”

I glare at him. “There will be no touching. Or kissing. Or pet names that make my thighs clench.”

That earns me a full-blown grin. “I like that you think I’m in control of your thighs.”

“Jesus Christ.”

He chuckles, pushing off the counter and walking toward the bed. “Fine. We’ll stick to the rules.”

“Good.”

He leans over and grabs a pillow, tossing it to the left side. “You sleep over there. I don’t bite.”

“Even if I asked?” The words are out before I can stop them and my eyes go wide.

He pauses. Cocks his head. “You asking?”

I shoot to my feet. “No.”

I take one step and immediately catch my toe on the edge of the bedspread. I stumble forward, right into him. His hands find my waist before I can catch myself. Hot. Solid.

My hands land on his chest, and holy hell, he feels good.

We don’t move.

We don’t breathe.

His fingers flex, just a little. His eyes flick from mine to my mouth and back again. And just for a second, I forget this is fake. I forget why we’re here. All I can think about is how close his mouth is to mine and how badly I want to know what it feels like.

“I should…” I start, but don’t finish.

I don’t even know what I was going to say.

He lets me go slowly, deliberately, like he’s daring me to lean back in.

I don’t.

I take a shaky step back, grab my toiletries bag like it’s a flotation device, and mutter, “I’m taking a shower. Alone.”

“Damn,” he says softly as I reach the bathroom door. It’s low. Rough. Like I just took something he didn’t realize he needed.“There goes my night.”

I shut the door behind me and press my back to it.

Then I squeeze my eyes shut and mouth the words:

Get. A. Grip.

To be Continued. Come back tomorrow for part three

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: September 2025

Cover Design by LS Phoenix

Husband for Hire – Part 1: A Desperate Solution

 Looking for something fun, flirty, and hotter than it has any right to be? Husband for Hire is here to deliver. This five-part blog-exclusive story kicks off with a desperate PR consultant, a fake husband hired through a not-quite-escort agency, and the kind of instant heat that can’t be faked—even if their marriage is.

What you need to know:

Delaney Masters doesn’t need a real husband—just one who can smile for the cameras, charm her clients, and keep his hands to himself. (Hopefully.) When a major contract demands she appear more “family-oriented,” she finds herself turning to Men for Hire—a discreet service that offers professional partners for high-stakes events.

Enter Beau Carter: older, broader, inked in places she should not be noticing, and infuriatingly confident. He’s supposed to be a temporary solution. But the way he looks at her? Feels her out like he already knows her? That’s the kind of trouble no contract can contain.

And the longer they fake it… the harder it is to remember where the lines ever were.

Husband for Hire – Part 1: A Desperate SolutionDelaney needed a fake husband.  She got a salt-and-pepper sex god with too much charm and no off switch.

Delaney Masters

The glow of my laptop reflects off the wine glass I definitely didn’t need to refill. Again.

“This is so stupid,” I mutter, shoving a strand of hair out of my face as I pace between my couch and coffee table for the sixth time in ten minutes. “He wants me to look married. Married.” I gesture dramatically at no one. “Because single women are apparently a liability to his brand.”

I collapse onto the couch with an exaggerated sigh and take a gulp of wine that’s more desperate than delicate.

Robert Keller, sleazeball CEO of one of the largest startup PR firms in the northeast, isn’t just hiring me to clean up his image. He wants me to represent stability. Maturity. Family values.

Because apparently being a thirty-year-old woman with her own company and zero scandals isn’t enough. I need a ring on my finger. A husband in tow. Preferably one who won’t embarrass him by showing up in a Henley and making inappropriate jokes about cucumber water.

I glance down at my bare hand and flip it off just for good measure. “There. Married as hell.”

My phone buzzes on the table beside me. It’s my best friend, Tasha.

Tasha: Just tell him you’re in a throuple with a priest and a mechanic. He’ll either die or stop asking.

I snort and text back. 

Me: Tempting. Or I could hire someone.

Tasha: Like… an escort?

I freeze mid-sip.

Not exactly what I meant. But…

My fingers fly across the keyboard before I can talk myself out of it.

temporary fake husband service professional companion discreet classy

Search. Click. Click again.

Oh.

Hello, Men for Hire.

Sleek site. Clean design. No nudity. But the implication is… unmistakable.

Professional male companions for upscale events. Background checked. Well-reviewed. Some with very interesting resumes. I click on a few profiles out of pure curiosity, strictly business research, obviously, and pause on one that says “experience with roleplay, public affection, and custom scenarios.”

Custom scenarios. I swear my thighs clench on instinct.

“This is ridiculous,” I whisper. “I cannot… I mean, this is basically prostitution with better fonts.”

Still. The idea sticks. Grows roots. I have a client event next week, a two-day retreat at a luxury resort, and no date. The entire thing is crawling with potential clients, and if I show up alone, Keller’s going to “jokingly” ask if my vibrator brought a plus one.

I sigh, draining the last of my wine. “Fine. One little submission. What’s the worst that could happen?”

I scroll back up, click the Request a Consultation button, and type:

Hi. I’m looking for a husband. For a weekend. Possibly longer if he’s really hot.

Delete that last part.

Professional only. Preferably someone who can pretend to love me without making it weird.

Better.

I hit submit.

Then lean back against the cushions and mutter, “This better come with a refund policy.”

By the time Thursday rolls around, I’ve almost convinced myself it was a joke. A wine-fueled, late-night spiral that should’ve stayed in my drafts. But at exactly two o’clock, my assistant knocks once and says, “Your…husband’s here?” with enough judgment to pickle a small country.

Which is how I end up standing behind my desk, heels too high and expectations far too low, waiting for a stranger I paid to pretend to love me.

I’m expecting someone bland.

Clean-shaven, probably in khakis. Polite in that I’m-here-for-your-money kind of way. A clipboard, maybe. A polite smile and firm handshake. Some guy named Preston who thinks mimicking a husband just means asking how my day was and not getting caught staring at my chest.

Instead—

The man who steps into my office looks like sin in business casual.

He’s tall. Like, stupid tall. Six-three if I’m guessing right, and I am, because I immediately start imagining what it would feel like to climb him. Salt-and-pepper stubble dusts his jaw, and his sleeves are rolled to his elbows, just enough to flash hints of tattoos under the crisp white cotton. He’s wearing black slacks, dark boots, and a navy shirt that hugs his arms a little too well to be accidental.

And that grin?

Lazy. Cocky. Filthy without saying a word.

I stand so fast I nearly knock over my laptop. “Can I help you?”

He closes the door behind him without breaking eye contact. “Delaney Masters?”

“Yes.”

“Beau Carter. You requested a consultation.”

I blink. “You’re… Beau Carter?”

“Did you expect someone else?” His voice is warm gravel. Low. Teasing. The kind of voice that belongs in dark rooms and bad decisions.

“I—” I shake myself. “I just figured you’d be… less.”

“Less?”

“Less… this.”

He laughs, and it’s not fair how much I like the sound of it. “You mean you thought I’d be boring.”

“I thought you’d be professional.”

“Sweetheart,” he says, sliding into the chair across from my desk without asking, “I’m the most professional fake husband you’ll ever meet.”

Oh, for the love of overpriced escort agencies.

I sit again, crossing my legs and pretending I don’t notice the way his eyes drop briefly before meeting mine again, completely unrepentant. “Let’s get something straight. This is strictly business.”

He sits down, then leans back in his chair like he owns it. “Of course.”

“No blurred lines.”

He smirks. “I never blur unless I’m told to.”

“No innuendos.”

“That wasn’t innuendo. That was a statement of fact.”

I narrow my eyes. “You’re enjoying this.”

He shrugs. “You hired a fake husband. I just happen to come with a little personality.”

“More like a God complex and a smug smile.”

“Guilty,” he says, completely unbothered. “But I’m damn good at what I do. You need someone who can charm a room, look at you like you hung the moon, and maybe kiss you like I mean it if the situation calls for it.” He leans forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. “Can you handle that, Delaney?”

My throat goes dry. I hate him.

And I still kind of want to climb him like a tree.

I straighten my spine and lift my chin. “I don’t like you.”

His grin sharpens, eyes darkening just enough to make my stomach flip.

“You don’t have to,” he says, rising to his feet. “You just have to trust me to fake it.”

I pull up the calendar invite on my screen, refusing to make eye contact with the 6’3” heatwave currently lounging in my office like he’s the one conducting this interview.

“Friday through Sunday,” I say briskly. “Two-night work retreat at Blackwood Ridge. It’s part corporate conference, part PR showcase, and a giant pain in my ass.”

Beau leans back in the chair like he’s settling in for a show. “Sounds romantic.”

“It’s not.”

He tilts his head. “And yet you’re bringing your husband.”

“Fake husband,” I snap. “Emphasis on fake.”

His grin spreads. “You’re really gonna have to work on your delivery if you want anyone to believe you’re in love with me.”

I shoot him a look that would terrify most men. He just looks amused.

“Here are the terms,” I say, tapping the document open and scrolling as I speak. “You’ll be introduced as my husband. We’ve been married for… what? Three years?”

He shrugs. “Depends. You want newlywed energy or five-years-deep comfort sex and synchronized eye rolls? If so, make it five,” he says without missing a beat. “Long enough to have inside jokes. Shared trauma. Muscle memory.”

My pulse skips. “Why do you say that like sex is a sport?”

He shrugs one shoulder. “Only if you’re doing it right.”

I glare at him. “There will be no sex.”

“Shame.”

“Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re imagining what my moans sound like.”

He doesn’t even blink. “I wasn’t. But thanks for the visual.”

Sweet. Merciful. God.

I slam my laptop shut. “Boundaries. Clear ones. No touching unless absolutely necessary. No innuendos in front of others. No sleeping in the same bed.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

“I don’t need fun. I need believable.”

His eyes sharpen, not in a threatening way. In a focused way. And that’s worse somehow.

“You want believable?” he says, standing slowly. “Then you’ll need to look at me like you’re in love.”

That shuts me up.

Just for a beat.

Because my first reaction is absolutely not. And my second is how the hell do I fake that when every part of my body is reacting like this isn’t pretend at all?

I clear my throat, ignoring the burn in my cheeks. “I’ll manage.”

He steps around the chair, casual and calm, like he doesn’t know the power he’s wielding. Or maybe he does, and he just enjoys watching me squirm.

Hand on the door, he glances back over his shoulder.

“Last chance to back out.”

I lift my chin. “I don’t scare easy.”

He grins. “Good. Because you’re gonna need a strong stomach to survive the weekend.”

And then he drops it—like it’s nothing, like it’s not going to haunt me all damn night:

“You want boring? Hire an accountant. You want believable? You’ve got me.”

The door clicks shut behind him.

I sit there, staring at the spot he just vacated, every cell in my body buzzing.

This is a terrible idea.

And I just signed up for it anyway.

To be Continued. Come back tomorrow for part two

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: September 2025

Cover Design by LS Phoenix

What you need to know: A Desperate Solution

 Looking for something fun, flirty, and hotter than it has any right to be? Husband for Hire is here to deliver. This five-part blog-exclusive story kicks off with a desperate PR consultant, a fake husband hired through a not-quite-escort agency, and the kind of instant heat that can’t be faked—even if their marriage is.

What you need to know:

Delaney Masters doesn’t need a real husband—just one who can smile for the cameras, charm her clients, and keep his hands to himself. (Hopefully.) When a major contract demands she appear more “family-oriented,” she finds herself turning to Men for Hire—a discreet service that offers professional partners for high-stakes events.

Enter Beau Carter: older, broader, inked in places she should not be noticing, and infuriatingly confident. He’s supposed to be a temporary solution. But the way he looks at her? Feels her out like he already knows her? That’s the kind of trouble no contract can contain.

And the longer they fake it… the harder it is to remember where the lines ever were.

Husband for Hire – Part 1: A Desperate SolutionDelaney needed a fake husband.  She got a salt-and-pepper sex god with too much charm and no off switch.

Delaney Masters

The glow of my laptop reflects off the wine glass I definitely didn’t need to refill. Again.

“This is so stupid,” I mutter, shoving a strand of hair out of my face as I pace between my couch and coffee table for the sixth time in ten minutes. “He wants me to look married. Married.” I gesture dramatically at no one. “Because single women are apparently a liability to his brand.”

I collapse onto the couch with an exaggerated sigh and take a gulp of wine that’s more desperate than delicate.

Robert Keller, sleazeball CEO of one of the largest startup PR firms in the northeast, isn’t just hiring me to clean up his image. He wants me to represent stability. Maturity. Family values.

Because apparently being a thirty-year-old woman with her own company and zero scandals isn’t enough. I need a ring on my finger. A husband in tow. Preferably one who won’t embarrass him by showing up in a Henley and making inappropriate jokes about cucumber water.

I glance down at my bare hand and flip it off just for good measure. “There. Married as hell.”

My phone buzzes on the table beside me. It’s my best friend, Tasha.

Tasha: Just tell him you’re in a throuple with a priest and a mechanic. He’ll either die or stop asking.

I snort and text back. 

Me: Tempting. Or I could hire someone.

Tasha: Like… an escort?

I freeze mid-sip.

Not exactly what I meant. But…

My fingers fly across the keyboard before I can talk myself out of it.

temporary fake husband service professional companion discreet classy

Search. Click. Click again.

Oh.

Hello, Men for Hire.

Sleek site. Clean design. No nudity. But the implication is… unmistakable.

Professional male companions for upscale events. Background checked. Well-reviewed. Some with very interesting resumes. I click on a few profiles out of pure curiosity, strictly business research, obviously, and pause on one that says “experience with roleplay, public affection, and custom scenarios.”

Custom scenarios. I swear my thighs clench on instinct.

“This is ridiculous,” I whisper. “I cannot… I mean, this is basically prostitution with better fonts.”

Still. The idea sticks. Grows roots. I have a client event next week, a two-day retreat at a luxury resort, and no date. The entire thing is crawling with potential clients, and if I show up alone, Keller’s going to “jokingly” ask if my vibrator brought a plus one.

I sigh, draining the last of my wine. “Fine. One little submission. What’s the worst that could happen?”

I scroll back up, click the Request a Consultation button, and type:

Hi. I’m looking for a husband. For a weekend. Possibly longer if he’s really hot.

Delete that last part.

Professional only. Preferably someone who can pretend to love me without making it weird.

Better.

I hit submit.

Then lean back against the cushions and mutter, “This better come with a refund policy.”

By the time Thursday rolls around, I’ve almost convinced myself it was a joke. A wine-fueled, late-night spiral that should’ve stayed in my drafts. But at exactly two o’clock, my assistant knocks once and says, “Your…husband’s here?” with enough judgment to pickle a small country.

Which is how I end up standing behind my desk, heels too high and expectations far too low, waiting for a stranger I paid to pretend to love me.

I’m expecting someone bland.

Clean-shaven, probably in khakis. Polite in that I’m-here-for-your-money kind of way. A clipboard, maybe. A polite smile and firm handshake. Some guy named Preston who thinks mimicking a husband just means asking how my day was and not getting caught staring at my chest.

Instead—

The man who steps into my office looks like sin in business casual.

He’s tall. Like, stupid tall. Six-three if I’m guessing right, and I am, because I immediately start imagining what it would feel like to climb him. Salt-and-pepper stubble dusts his jaw, and his sleeves are rolled to his elbows, just enough to flash hints of tattoos under the crisp white cotton. He’s wearing black slacks, dark boots, and a navy shirt that hugs his arms a little too well to be accidental.

And that grin?

Lazy. Cocky. Filthy without saying a word.

I stand so fast I nearly knock over my laptop. “Can I help you?”

He closes the door behind him without breaking eye contact. “Delaney Masters?”

“Yes.”

“Beau Carter. You requested a consultation.”

I blink. “You’re… Beau Carter?”

“Did you expect someone else?” His voice is warm gravel. Low. Teasing. The kind of voice that belongs in dark rooms and bad decisions.

“I—” I shake myself. “I just figured you’d be… less.”

“Less?”

“Less… this.”

He laughs, and it’s not fair how much I like the sound of it. “You mean you thought I’d be boring.”

“I thought you’d be professional.”

“Sweetheart,” he says, sliding into the chair across from my desk without asking, “I’m the most professional fake husband you’ll ever meet.”

Oh, for the love of overpriced escort agencies.

I sit again, crossing my legs and pretending I don’t notice the way his eyes drop briefly before meeting mine again, completely unrepentant. “Let’s get something straight. This is strictly business.”

He sits down, then leans back in his chair like he owns it. “Of course.”

“No blurred lines.”

He smirks. “I never blur unless I’m told to.”

“No innuendos.”

“That wasn’t innuendo. That was a statement of fact.”

I narrow my eyes. “You’re enjoying this.”

He shrugs. “You hired a fake husband. I just happen to come with a little personality.”

“More like a God complex and a smug smile.”

“Guilty,” he says, completely unbothered. “But I’m damn good at what I do. You need someone who can charm a room, look at you like you hung the moon, and maybe kiss you like I mean it if the situation calls for it.” He leans forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. “Can you handle that, Delaney?”

My throat goes dry. I hate him.

And I still kind of want to climb him like a tree.

I straighten my spine and lift my chin. “I don’t like you.”

His grin sharpens, eyes darkening just enough to make my stomach flip.

“You don’t have to,” he says, rising to his feet. “You just have to trust me to fake it.”

I pull up the calendar invite on my screen, refusing to make eye contact with the 6’3” heatwave currently lounging in my office like he’s the one conducting this interview.

“Friday through Sunday,” I say briskly. “Two-night work retreat at Blackwood Ridge. It’s part corporate conference, part PR showcase, and a giant pain in my ass.”

Beau leans back in the chair like he’s settling in for a show. “Sounds romantic.”

“It’s not.”

He tilts his head. “And yet you’re bringing your husband.”

“Fake husband,” I snap. “Emphasis on fake.”

His grin spreads. “You’re really gonna have to work on your delivery if you want anyone to believe you’re in love with me.”

I shoot him a look that would terrify most men. He just looks amused.

“Here are the terms,” I say, tapping the document open and scrolling as I speak. “You’ll be introduced as my husband. We’ve been married for… what? Three years?”

He shrugs. “Depends. You want newlywed energy or five-years-deep comfort sex and synchronized eye rolls? If so, make it five,” he says without missing a beat. “Long enough to have inside jokes. Shared trauma. Muscle memory.”

My pulse skips. “Why do you say that like sex is a sport?”

He shrugs one shoulder. “Only if you’re doing it right.”

I glare at him. “There will be no sex.”

“Shame.”

“Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re imagining what my moans sound like.”

He doesn’t even blink. “I wasn’t. But thanks for the visual.”

Sweet. Merciful. God.

I slam my laptop shut. “Boundaries. Clear ones. No touching unless absolutely necessary. No innuendos in front of others. No sleeping in the same bed.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

“I don’t need fun. I need believable.”

His eyes sharpen, not in a threatening way. In a focused way. And that’s worse somehow.

“You want believable?” he says, standing slowly. “Then you’ll need to look at me like you’re in love.”

That shuts me up.

Just for a beat.

Because my first reaction is absolutely not. And my second is how the hell do I fake that when every part of my body is reacting like this isn’t pretend at all?

I clear my throat, ignoring the burn in my cheeks. “I’ll manage.”

He steps around the chair, casual and calm, like he doesn’t know the power he’s wielding. Or maybe he does, and he just enjoys watching me squirm.

Hand on the door, he glances back over his shoulder.

“Last chance to back out.”

I lift my chin. “I don’t scare easy.”

He grins. “Good. Because you’re gonna need a strong stomach to survive the weekend.”

And then he drops it—like it’s nothing, like it’s not going to haunt me all damn night:

“You want boring? Hire an accountant. You want believable? You’ve got me.”

The door clicks shut behind him.

I sit there, staring at the spot he just vacated, every cell in my body buzzing.

This is a terrible idea.

And I just signed up for it anyway.

To be Continued. Come back tomorrow for part two

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: September 2025

Cover Design by LS Phoenix