The Pact Page 9

  A husband who is probably the most reserved man I’ve ever met and have known for all of twenty-four hours, tops, and who gave me the kind of sex that made my toes curl back so far, I’m surprised they’re not permanently stuck to my heels.

  Dear God, the sex. With Flynn Winslow. My husband. Memories of that night roll behind my eyes like the trailer for a movie.

  The way his big hands felt on my body.

  The multitude of bad and dirty things he said into my ear.

  How insanely good his cock felt inside me.

  How deep he was inside me.

  Holy hot-sex-sundae-with-a-cherry-on-top.

  When a persistent throb tries to set up shop between my thighs, I shift in my seat and cross my bare legs beneath my black pencil skirt. It doesn’t do shit to curb the confusing discomfort, and it definitely doesn’t stop the warmth that spreads across my cheeks or the fact that I dig my teeth into my bottom lip so hard, I almost draw blood.

  Holy hell, what am I doing?

  Oh, you know, just fantasizing about having sex with your husband whom you barely know and married on a whim because you’re a desperate illegal alien in the eyes of United States law…

  “Ugh. Stop trying to have a mental spiral, Dais. Now is not the time,” I quietly coach myself and run a frustrated hand down my face. “Just finish filling out the damn application.”

  No matter how uncomfortable this whole ordeal is, I need to finish this application. My job, my life, it all depends on it. Also, you know, it’s imperative to avoid deportation.

  My brain wants to fixate on that last word, the scary D-word that I’m refusing to give any merit to, but I shake it off and put my eyes back on the screen.

  Part 3: Additional Information About You

  A little bit of work history. Education history. Current and past addresses. It’s all easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy and done a few minutes later.

  Part 4: Information About Your Parents

  Well, hell. If only I knew who my biological parents even were…

  Growing up in the Canadian foster system and not finding a permanent living situation and guardian until I was fifteen have made answering these questions impossible. I don’t know anything about my parents—who they were, if they’re still alive, where they live, why they put me up for adoption.

  All I know is that I started in the foster system at birth, and while I did stay with a family for the first two years of my life, I mostly jumped around from foster home to foster home until Gwen took me under her wing as a teenager.

  And to be honest, I don’t have a desire to find my biological parents. I know a lot of people might feel strongly about this, but to me, it’s not something I want to do or feel that I have to do.

  I am the reason I am who I am today, and any information about my absentee biological parents isn’t going to change any of that.

  “Uh oh, someone has a very serious look on their face.”

  I pull my eyes away from the screen of my laptop to find Damien standing in front of my desk. He searches my face closely, tilts his head to the side, and opens his mouth again before I can find a reason for my studious expression that doesn’t revolve around the sad truth—letting my work visa lapse and putting my career at risk.

  “What’s wrong?” he questions and starts to walk around my desk so he can take a gander at what has me looking so “serious.”

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  Quickly, I tap my fingers against the track pad to minimize the application that sits front and center. The very last thing I need right now is my boss finding out that not only did I fuck up my visa, but I impulsively married an American in Vegas just so I could un-fuck it up.

  “N-nothing,” I answer as he comes to stand beside my chair and places a comforting hand on my shoulder. “Everything is just fine and dandy.”

  Just fine and dandy? Goodness.

  “What’s that?” Damien quirks his brow, and his eyes home in on my computer.

  “Uh…” My words fumble over my tongue as he takes a closer look, and a hummingbird’s wing is now my heart as I dart my eyes back to my laptop screen.

  “Are those the staging plans for the Laurel Canyon bungalow?”

  The staging plans for the Laurel Canyon bungalow EllisGrey will be listing soon are, in fact, what is front and center. Oh, thank hell.

  “Oh…uh, yeah,” I respond and swallow past the uncomfortable knot my thumping heart has pushed up into my throat. “I…um…I just finished those up this morning.”

  Technically, I finished them up before I left for Vegas, but he doesn’t need to know that. It’s better for everyone if he thinks I’ve spent my workday doing, you know, work.

  “Daisy?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Are you okay? You look like one of those buildings on TV when they televise their demolition. All sad and tired because everyone knows the big bang that’s coming.” His eyes are back on me now, and I discreetly suck some much-needed oxygen into my lungs.

  Damien Ellis is one of the best bosses on the planet. Kind, hilarious, understanding, and sympathetic to his employees’ struggles, he’s the kind of man you want to work for. The kind of man who inspires and motivates you to be the best you can be. The kind of man who encourages you, challenges you, and helps you evolve in your career.

  He’s…amazing.

  But telling him that I put my job at risk—the job he gave me, mind you—because I didn’t keep track of my visa’s expiration date? No. That’s professional negligence that would be impossible for most bosses to understand, no matter how damn awesome they might be.

  “Daisy.” He says my name again, but this time, it’s in a way that makes me realize just how much time has passed since he asked the question.

  “Yeah?”

  “Doll, I wasn’t born yesterday.” A laugh jumps from his perfectly hydrated lips. “I know when there’s some kind of emotional drama brewing better than anyone. So, honey bunny, it’s high time for you to spill the tea on what’s got you acting so weird.”

  “What?” I feign confusion. “I’m not acting weird. No way. Nothing weird is happening, and I’m not acting weird.” When I realize just how weird my rambling response was, I add, “Maybe I’m just a little tired?”

  “You’re jumpy and fidgety, and if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were sitting here watching porn on your company-issued computer.”

  I choke on my tongue. “Uh, no. I wasn’t watching porn.”

  “Taking sexy foot pics for your OnlyFans account, then?”

  “Damien!” I exclaim on a laugh. “Oh my God, you’re deranged. I don’t have an OnlyFans account.”

  “Personally, I am pro-porn and pro-Only Fans. I mean, have you seen the money some of the people are raking in?”

  “No, I have not.”

  “It’s a lot, doll. A lot. Anyway…back to your weirdness…” He smirks down at me, but he also quirks a knowing brow. An expression that says, “I know you’re not telling me something, and I’m not leaving your office until you do.”

  Boiling hot water in a bubble bath, the pressure is scalding. What do I tell him?

  I search and scramble to find something that makes sense. Something that’s simple enough not to trip me up any time it comes up again, and heaven forbid, something that’s not even worse than the actual problem I’ve acquired. I wouldn’t put it past myself to accidentally blurt that I went on a homicide spree, given the number of true crime shows I frequently put myself to sleep with.

  But Damien is calmly persistent. His gaze is still locked on my face, searching, seeking, trying to decode what sits inside my brain, but doing it in a way that doesn’t feel like he’s suspicious or interrogating me at all. Which only makes me insanely nervous all over again and certain that if the FBI and CIA and local police departments would only hire gay men to get suspects to confess, unsolved crimes would no longer be a thing.

  One drop of sweat drips down the center of my back, and my hands start to feel c
lammy and my heart just keeps pounding, and the pressure is building and building…

  “I got married in Vegas.” The words shoot out of my mouth before I can stop them. And trust me, I tried to stop them, but my hand slapped against my own lips after “Vegas” flitted off my tongue.

  “What?” Damien’s eyes turn as wide as my ever-growing path of lies, and he blinks several times. “I’m sorry, but did you just say you got married?”

  Oh boy. I cringe. Nod. Shrug. Nervously giggle.

  “In Vegas?”

  When I don’t answer, mostly because the truth is undoubtedly written all over my guilty face, he scrunches up his nose like he just ate a piece of sweet-and-sour candy. “Let me get this straight… Daisy Diaz got married while she was in Vegas for an EllisGrey work trip?”

  “I…uh…I made sure I did it outside of work obligations…?” I respond, as if I’m asking him if that was the reality. “And I’m sorry…” I add, even though I don’t know why I’d be apologizing to him about getting married. Obviously, I should be apologizing for messing up my visa, but I’d prefer to take that monumental mistake to the grave.

  This is not going well…

  Damien just stands there, staring at me for about thirty seconds too long. The kind of silent observation that makes you feel incredibly uncomfortable and makes the urge to start rambling some kind of explanation that will most likely lead to the truth grow like a vine of ivy up a tree.

  Don’t you dare say another word. Do. Not. Do. It.

  “Damien, I have something I need to—”

  “I swear, if this is Mateo calling me to bitch about the masseuse I hired for him, I will tear my hair out,” he grumbles as he snags his phone out of the inside pocket of his sleek gray suit. He stares down at the screen, and my body threatens to burrow inside the fancy hardwood floor of the office when I realize I was mere seconds away from dropping the biggest truth bomb of my life up in this bitch.

  “Damn, I forgot about that.” Damien sighs, shoves his phone back into his suit pocket, and points a perfectly manicured index finger in my direction. “Doll, you’re lucky I have a meeting to get to right now, but I promise you, I’ll be back for that tea.”

  “There’s no tea,” I answer, and he calls my bluff with a furrowed brow.

  “Before we went to Vegas, you were the only straight girl in the office who didn’t let her panties fall to the ground for Duncan Jones,” he says and shakes his head on a laugh. “And now, you’re married. Trust me, there’s tea…” He pauses, and then his eyes go wide. “Oh hell, don’t tell me you married Duncan Jones…”

  “Oh my God, no,” I answer honestly. “No, no, no.”

  “Okay, good.” He breathes out in relief. “We’re chatting later, though. Kisses!”

  And then he’s off. Through my office door and back into the hallway as if our conversation didn’t just make me age ten years.

  Fackkkk.

  Head straight to my desk, I let my forehead hit the hard surface with a bang.

  God, I’m an idiot.

  You’re also an idiot who doesn’t have time to wallow in misery…

  On a deep sigh, I find the will to lift my head back up, run a hand down my face, and pull myself together enough to face my application again. Thankfully, it doesn’t take long before I have it ready to print out and sign and mail off to the scary immigration overlords at USCIS.

  But it doesn’t end there. Oh, no. There are more steps. Not only did I have to fill out an application, but my American husband does, too.

  Cell phone out, I scroll through my contacts until I come to a stop at the name Flynn Winslow, open a fresh message box, and start to type out a text.

  Hey, it’s me. Daisy. Daisy Diaz.

  Ugh. That sounds so dumb. Delete.

  Hi, there! I hope you’re doing fantastic!

  Goodness. No need to shout at the guy. Delete.

  Stop overcomplicating this and just be yourself. It’s not like the man married you because he’s in love with you. He married you because he’s trying to help you. No need to put up some façade.

  Resigned to just handle shit like I normally do, I proceed to type out a few texts I can actually hit send on.

  Me: Hey, American hubby. It’s me, Daisy, your lovely Canadian wife. I’ve downloaded all of the pertinent documentation and applications for my visa. We’re going to have to send everything in via the good-old-fashioned mail. The first application that needs to be mailed in is mine, which I’ve filled out and will be sending out soon. The next is your application, along with the pertinent documentation you need to provide to USCIS.

  Me: Just FYI: There’s A LOT of information to read through. Like, over fifty pages of very boring, mundane things. And I know this is all just a hassle for you, but I want to make sure I say thank you for doing this. That is, if you’re still planning on helping me get a visa, which I hope you are, because hell’s bells, I really, really need the help…

  Me: So…I guess what I’m trying to say is, if you’re still game, either I send you the forms you need to fill out and a copy of the application I’ll be mailing in tomorrow morning, OR I can try to fill them out for you and forge your signature. Personally, I think the former is the best option because, while I’m pretty good at forging signatures, I’m not that great at forging official documentation.

  Suddenly panicked that the NSA is going to read these messages, I type out all the things I need to say to cover my tracks.

  Me: I’m kidding. LOL. I’ve never forged anything in my life. And obviously, I’m joking about the visa thing too because ha-ha-ha, we’re in love. Wild, wonderful love.

  Uncomfortable with all the lying, even when I’m smack-dab in the middle of the biggest lie in the universe, I blather on.

  Me: Okay, fine. Once, I forged something ONE TIME, and it was no big deal. Just a minor date change on a document for a travel refund when I was eighteen. I deserved the refund, btw. That spring break trip was something nightmares are made of, and the date mistake was a legitimate typo. I was just making it right.

  Once I hit send on the final message, I set my phone down on my desk and tap my fingers across the surface as I wait for him to respond. I also silently wonder why I always seem to word vomit all over this guy.

  When my phone lights up with two incoming text messages from the man of the immigration application hour, I grab my phone so fast I nearly drop it.

  The first text? Only four words—Mail them to me.

  And the second? A New York address.

  Damn, Flynn Winslow is certainly a man of few words, isn’t he?

  Yeah, Mrs. Winslow. He sure is.

  So…he lives in New York full time? Not Vegas? Obviously, since I was in his swanky Vegas home, this is new information. You mean the home that you had the wildest sex of your life in?

  I shake my head, ignore my snarky inner voice, and wait a little longer, thinking that maybe he’ll add to the messages. But when nothing comes, I remember that with all the things I don’t know about my American husband, there’s certainly something I do—he doesn’t converse just for the sake of it. When he speaks, it’s because it’s necessary or it means something, period. If the world would handle food and recycling like Flynn Winslow handles words, there’d never be any food shortages, and all of the oceans would be devoid of garbage.

  As I stare down at his New York address, the seed of curiosity that’s planted into my belly starts to grow. Clearly, I’ve seen his Las Vegas house, but there’s something inside me that can’t stop myself from Google searching this new nugget of a peek into Flynn’s life.

  Technology and the internet make it pathetically easy to enable my nosiness, and within a few typed words and clicks on my keyboard, my screen showcases an aerial view of a swanky building located in Midtown. Certified proof that Flynn Winslow has done really fucking well for himself.

  Which only makes me more curious about this man and where he lives and what his life is like…

  Me: Okay
…so…I have two questions… Is New York where you live full time? And what do you do for a living?

  Flynn: Yes. Electrical engineer.

  Me: That’s cool. Way above my head, I’m sure, but cool. LOL. I’m an interior designer and stager for EllisGrey. That’s a big real estate firm based out of LA.

  I’m not shocked when he doesn’t respond, but I’m also not done asking questions.

  Me: Is that the only thing you do to make money?

  I’m well aware that electrical engineers—any engineers, really—make a very healthy living. But from what I’ve seen of Flynn’s life so far, it feels like there’s more to his financial story.

  Flynn: Investments

  Short and to the point. Always.

  Me: So, not to sound stalkerish, but I Googled your NYC address, and your building is pretty damn swanky. It also makes the designer in me VERY curious what it looks like on the inside… Did you use the same color palette in your New York apartment as in your Vegas home?

  Don’t get me wrong, his Vegas home is a stunner. But it could certainly use little eye-catching pops of color here and there to break up the constant use of bland neutrals. Seriously, Flynn, a little color won’t kill ya.

  Flynn: Daisy?

  Me: Yeah?

  Flynn: Stop talking to me about color palettes.

  His response makes me grin. And it also gives me a brilliant idea…

  Friday, April 12th, New York

  Flynn

  A little after eight in the evening, I step beneath the awning of my building entrance, offer a curt smile to Carl the evening doorman, and head inside the doors. After a quick stop at the small alcove with the mailboxes, I find a stack of mail inside my metal box and a large package sitting right below it on the floor.

  The label is written in very pretty, feminine handwriting, and beside the sender’s name—Daisy Winslow—sits a little smiley face.

  I don’t know why that makes me smile, but it does. It also makes me shake my head. The woman is a trip.