My Wedding Was a Fake, So I Claimed My Fortune and a Billionaire novel · Chapter 7 of 24

Chapter 7: Hot Water

Davis believed I was at Birdie's for girls' night, with a bottle of wine and a bad movie.

I was in a claw-foot tub in a rented carriage house on Gaston Street, with a billionaire's hands in my hair.

Auden knelt behind me on the tile in his shirtsleeves, rolled to the elbow, and poured warm water over my head from a copper jug.

The room smelled of cedar and steam.

A single candle burned on the windowsill, and the water was up to my collarbones.

"Close your eyes," he said.

I closed them.

He worked shampoo into my scalp with his fingertips, slow and firm.

My hair is long and thick, and nobody in my life had ever washed it for me except my grandmother when I had the chicken pox.

He moved from my crown to my nape and back, patient, and my whole body went loose.

"You're humming," he said.

"I'm not."

"You are."

I was.

I was humming the hymn my grandmother sang at the stove.

He rinsed my hair in careful pours, one hand cupped at my forehead to keep the soap out of my eyes.

When he was done he wrung it out in a long rope and laid it over the edge of the tub.

"Now you," I said.

"Me what?"

"Get in."

He looked at me for a long moment.

Then he stood and undressed, unhurried.

Shirt first, then trousers.

He stood naked in the candlelight, broad and dark and heavy with wanting, and my mouth went dry.

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