Page 6 of Accidentally Marrying the Prisoner
“I need you to take a bath or…or…do whatever you need to do to get ready for bed.”
“Are you seriously implementing a bedtime routine like you’re my dad?”
I roll my lips and grit my teeth before I say, “No, like I’m your husband.”
“Fakehusband.”
“Legalhusband,” I emphasize, “even if neither of us wants me to be.” I give her a little push. “Now, stay out of my way and let me handle this.” I close the door on her scoffing, reassess the apartment, then get to work.
A sense of peace settles in as I put my own mark on what is now my home. Out of everything I find and organize, it’s the plastic tote hidden beneath Mirabeth’s bed that I find most interesting. I leave it where it is, though, since she hid it, even from herself, for a reason. I’ll keep this secret of hers, in case she’s embarrassed, but that doesn’t mean I’ll be able to forget it. Oh no, I definitely won’t.
CHAPTER
THREE
MIRABETH
I feel silly knocking on my own bathroom door to ask a stranger who has only lived here for approximately two hours and thirteen minutes if it’s ok to come out. It’s one reason why I haven’t apologized for basically climbing him like a rabid monkey. He doesn’t deserve it.
Conrad growls with irritation on the other side when I press my ear to the door. “Fourth time I’m telling you this, and I won’t repeat myself again”—which is what he said the last two times—“I’ll let you know when I’m finished, and not a second sooner.”
“But when?” I whine as I tighten my lemon-patterned towel around me. I soaked in the tub until my skin turned pruney, then filed and painted my fingernails and toenails. Embarrassingly, for absolutely no good reason, I even waxed my legs and intimate region, biting back howls of pain with each rip of the wax strips, tears streaming from my eyes.
“I’ll let you know!”
I inch the door open. “Can I at least get some clothes?”
Conrad growls again, and he shoves his hand through the crack, holding a neat stack of clothes: an oversized baby blueT-shirt, white pajama pants with little pastel rainbows, and—disconcertingly—my hot pink boyshorts. He closes the door with a bang.
It’s another mind-numbingly boring forty minutes later that he knocks on the door before pushing it open, sweeping his hand out in ata-damanner. He’s smiling from ear to ear, all pleased with himself, showing off his handiwork. But then his brows drop along with his smile. “Why aren’t you wearing your pants?”
“They don’t fit.”
“Why not?”
“I was sick for, like, three weeks and?—”
“Let me guess. You left food out, ate it, and gave yourself such awful food poisoning that you unintentionally lost weight.”
“No. That’s not what happened.”That’s exactly what happened, I realize, and I did it week after week, but I’m not going to tell him that.
Conrad pushes the heels of his palms into his eyes with a groan. “I’m going to make you take a food-safety course.”
I roll my eyes and squeeze past him, shocked to see the apartment sparkling clean and clutter-free. He even found my cookie tin sewing kit and mended my comforter. “Ok, I’m keeping you forever if it means I never have to do laundry again.”
“Best I can do is three years,” he says.
“Deal.” I move to my drafting table, which he’s rearranged to face the window instead of the side wall. He’s also leveled the TV, steamed out my dresses hanging from my closet bar with the combo iron and steamer that I never took out of the box, and…yup, folded my underwear and bras.
When I turn around, his brows pinch together. “Have you been crying?”
I narrow my eyes to slits so he can’t see the bloodshot inner corners. “No.” I’m never waxing again.
He steps closer and lifts my chin with his first two fingers, his touch warm and unexpected. “Don’t lie to me.”
Fine, I won’t. I press my lips together in a thin lie and say nothing at all, turning away.
Conrad sighs. “I’m going to take a shower. Dinner’s on the stove,” he says as I continue my perusal. “Merlin has already eaten his, so don’t let him trick you into thinking he’s starving. He already tried that with me.”
