Chapter Six

Coco

T ears roll down my cheeks, landing on the pristine textbook page below. I watch, detached, as the fat droplets soak into the paper, warping the crisp text and causing the glossy pages to wrinkle and stick together. This book has been my constant companion since undergrad. I’ve had it longer than I’ve had my dog. It’s a relic from my favorite college class: PSYM 305: Psychomagical Species Differences. I can still remember the intoxicating smell of fresh ink when I first opened the book, how the pages seemed to glow with possibility.

Before that class, I was just going through the motions, pursuing psychology because it’s what my mom wanted. She never said it out loud, but the undercurrents of pressure were always there. But PSYM 305 changed everything. It was the spark that ignited my passion, the catalyst that propelled me towards my doctorate. For the first time since starting college, I saw a future in this field that was entirely my own.

By some miracle, I’ve managed to keep this textbook as perfect as the first day I removed its shrink wrap. No scribbled notes in the margin, no creased spine. Perfect . . . until now. But what's the point of preserving it anymore?

I swipe at my face with my sleeve, trying to focus on the words I've read a thousand times before. I'm grasping at straws, hoping for some hidden wisdom that'll help me connect with my demon patients. But deep down, I know it's useless. The problem isn't cultural. The problem is me.

Mariah groans as she adjusts herself in my lap, snuggling deeper into my stomach. I absently stroke her golden fur, grateful for the fact that I'm not completely alone in all this. At least I have my grumpy little diva.

My phone sits on the counter a few inches away from my book. The black screen stares back at me accusingly, my mom's latest text burning a hole in my conscience. As if the universe wanted to dump a truckload of salt into my open wound, my mom sent a message after I left the courthouse, asking how the rest of my week went and when we could video chat again. When I didn’t respond, she sent me a beachside selfie with my dad, their tanned and happy faces squished together, with the caption: "Wish you were here!"

At twenty-eight, my mom was already working on the research that would revolutionize child development. Me? I can't even keep a rural clinic afloat for longer than a few months.

I should call her. Ask for her advice. Maybe she’ll know what to do. But the only thing that feels worse than failing is admitting defeat to my genius mother. I'm not ready for her to peek behind the curtain and realize what a phony her daughter really is.

My phone pings, notifying me there’s movement on the front porch. My stomach clenches. I don’t need to check the live feed; I’ve been bracing for this moment all day.

It’s Judge Grimshaw, no doubt here to yell at me for lying in court. I knew I was in serious trouble when I tried to talk to the judge after the proceeding, and one of the bailiffs stopped me to relay a message that Judge Grimshaw didn’t need a ride home. He had paperwork to fill out, and he would just call for a cab instead of making me wait.

Is he mad enough to evict me?

I scoop up Mariah like a football as I push out from the bar stool, hoping whatever he decides to do, her presence might soften the blow. Or at least buy us a couple of extra days before he kicks us to the curb.

A knock at the door startles me. I clutch Mariah closer to my pounding heart, my breath catching. The judge never knocks.

I fumble with the door’s touchscreen as Mariah wriggles and growls underneath my arm like an agitated Furby. The knocking grows more insistent. Wow. He must be furious .

I open the door, an apology ready on my lips. But it's not the judge who barges past me.

It's Vale.

My heart stutters as he strides in like he owns the place. I gape at him, barely noticing Mariah squirming in my arms, desperate to sniff out our intruder and determine his threat level.

Vale's imposing figure fills my small living room, his crimson skin a stark contrast against the white walls. He's wearing a clean white shirt and jeans, but remnants of soot from last night’s explosion still mar his square jaw, accentuating the sharp angles of his features. His hair is disheveled, and a musky scent of sweat and smoke clings to him. He may be dressed like an off-duty actor, but good heavens, does he desperately need a shower.

After assessing my place with a dissatisfied frown, he turns to me. The low lighting in the room catches Vale’s slightly curved horns, casting long shadows on his face. It makes him look more somber than he did at his own preceding.

"I changed my mind. Let's make that bargain. I agree to help with your clinic if you—” He stops, lowering his eyes to the furball tucked underneath my armpit. Mariah gives up trying to free herself and growls at Vale, her rumble low and threatening. He takes a cautionary step back. "What in the Holy Abyss is that? "

“My dog,” I say, clutching her sausage-shaped body close to my chest. Mariah pauses her growling to lick the back of my hand. “This is Mariah Scary. Just ignore her. She's slow to warm up to new people. I rescued her from the street, and I'm pretty sure she was raised by a family of feral raccoons. We’re working on her socialization skills.” I’ve been working on that for a while now, but I’m a therapist, not a miracle worker.

He scoffs. “That's not a dog. That's an oversized rat with anger management problems. You chose that thing over spending the night with me?” I arch a surprised eyebrow, but he waves his hand in the air. “Nevermind. Not important.” He lowers to the floor, going down on one knee.

“Coco Sullivan, will you do me the great honor of pretending to be my adoring wife?” Vale’s face is the picture of earnestness like he’s proposing for real. There’s even a new country twang to his voice. But there’s a tiny glint of amusement in his amber eyes. If this was a real proposal, I imagine this would be the point he'd present me with a diamond ring.

I know his proposal is fake—I know that—but I guess Vale is a good actor after all because my body reacts like this is real. My chest swells and butterflies do a gymnastics routine in my stomach as he pops the question. It takes me a terribly long moment to find enough air to answer his question. Once I compose myself enough, I shoot him a skeptical look. “What changed your mind? When I suggested the same idea this morning, you rolled your eyes at me. I remember the word insane being thrown around.”

He sighs, pushing to his feet. “That journalist you spoke to posted a picture of us on social media. My manager loved the idea so much, she wants me to play along and stay here to promote the movie. Apparently, we're hashtag couple goals now,” he mutters, air-quoting ‘couple goals’ with his fingers.

“I see. So, do I have to do anything besides exist in your general vicinity?”

He thinks about my question for a moment. “Not really. Pose for a couple of photos. Come with me to a few press events here in town. It'll be easy. All you'll have to do is smile for the camera and maybe answer a few questions.”

“I don't know, Vale. You saw my performance in court. My lying skills need work. My stomach has been in knots all day.” My sister did say the guilt gets better with time, but now I’m beginning to think that’s another thing she’s just lying about.

Careful not to put his fingers anywhere near Mariah and her mouth, he reaches for my hand and squeezes. His hand is so big and warm, it envelops mine like an oven mitt. A current of electricity sparks up my arm, making the fine hairs on my arm stand on end.

“You'll be fine,” he says with a heart melting smile, flashing his straight, white, slightly sharp teeth. I have to remind my swooning body again this is just acting. Really, really good acting. “I'll help you practice. Think of it as immersion therapy for your honesty addiction.”

“And in return, you'll help with the clinic?”

The skin around his grin tightens. It’s a subtle shift, but he’s standing close enough that I do notice it. “Of course! I'll be the most helpful demon you've ever met. Now, grab my forearm like this.” He loosens his grip on my hand and slides his palm up my arm. I reflexively shudder as his palm scrapes across the soft, sensitive underbelly of my forearm. When I finally find the right position, he grins. “Good. To seal the bargain, repeat after me: a deal's a deal.”

As we recite the phrase together, and the bargain is sealed with our words, his skin grows warmer against mine. Not so hot I feel the need to let go. It's comforting and inviting, like cuddling up with a heating pad after a long run. This is nothing like the deal I made with Judge Grimshaw.

I look up from our intertwined arms and let out a quiet gasp. His amber eyes, surrounded by rings of darkness, flash with light.

The light scent of campfire smoke fills the air as the shadows in the corners of the room darken. Vale closes his eyes and tips his head back a degree, his tongue flicking out to taste the air. I study him closely, transfixed by the look of pure ecstasy on his face. It's as if a mask has slipped, revealing something raw and vulnerable beneath.

My clinical mind whirs, cataloging every micro-expression, every subtle shift in his demeanor. When he blinks his eyes open, they' re glassy and unfocused, just like how they were last night at the bar, when he sat down at my table a little buzzed.

Mariah's terrified whine snaps us both back to reality.

I'm sorry, girl, I think as I let go of Vale's arm and set her on the ground. She didn’t like whatever she detected with her extra doggy senses. Instead of marching over to Vale to sniff his shoe, as soon as I place her on the carpet, she rushes to her bed and jumps under the blanket to hide.

I turn back to Vale who is smoothing the front of his shirt. His amber eyes are clear and focused. Whatever moment of vulnerability I saw is now gone, the mask firmly back in place. My mind is buzzing with curiosity. I want to grab him by the hand, lead him to the couch, and have him walk me through everything that went through his head and body while we sealed our bargain. Leaving no detail unexamined. But it's better not to push him. Not tonight, anyway.

Vale clears his throat loudly, avoiding my gaze. "Well, I'll be in touch."

“Where are you going?” I ask as he turns towards the door.

“Back to the hotel. Why, miss me already, wife?” he asks, flashing me a devilish grin.

I grimace. “You can't leave. You have to sleep here.”

His smile drops. “Why?”

I suck down a gulp of air, bracing myself before I rip off the Band-Aid. “Because my landlord lives in the house connected to mine. And my landlord . . . is Judge Grimshaw.”

I 'm standing at the edge of my bed in my pajamas, holding my breath like I'm playing an absurd game of hide-and-seek. The shower runs in the background, a white noise that's doing nothing to calm my nerves. When it finally shuts off, I exhale so loudly you'd think I'd been underwater for an hour.

Vale emerges from the bathroom in a cloud of steam. I start aggressively fluffing a pillow, trying to look busy and not at all like I've been hovering outside the bathroom like a creep.

He saunters into view, and I keep my eyes glued to the poor pillow I'm assaulting.

“You should invest in better shampoo,” he says, drying his hair with a towel. “The one you have is full of sulfates. You might as well be washing your hair with motor oil.” By the time Vale graduated from the denial stage to the acceptance stage of his grieving process, and realized he had no choice but to sleep here, it was too late to send for his things. He’ll have someone deliver them from the Emberlight tomorrow. Feeling a little guilty for his predicament, I told him he was free to use my shower and products.

I sneak a glance at him. His horns are gleaming like they’ve been freshly polished, and he smells like patchouli. Funny how he's got no problem using my fancy body oil yet feels the need to criticize my shampoo. "Noted," I say dryly. "I'll add 'shampoo fit for a Hollywood diva' to my shopping list."

My eyes betray me, darting over his body. Luckily for him, I found an ex-boyfriends old tank top and sweatpants I forgot to throw out after we broke up. Unluckily for me, the clothes cling to his body like they're afraid to let go, outlining every ripple and curve of his muscles. It's so unfair it should be illegal. I'm regretting not telling him to sleep in his jeans. At least denim isn't quite so clingy.

I force a yawn. “I'm turning in for the night. You should too. First day of work tomorrow, and I heard your boss is a real drill sergeant.”

He makes a show of glancing around the room. “Please tell me there's a secret trap door to a luxury suite. Where am I supposed to sleep? The bathtub?”

I force a smile. “It's not the Emberlight,” I pause to gesture to the small makeshift bed I made him on the floor. The couch is too small for me, let alone him, but I did my best with what few supplies I had, “but this should get you through the night. We can buy you an air mattress tomorrow.”

He scoffs. “No. Absolutely not. Your dog's bed looks like it has more lumbar support than that pile of blankets.” Mariah peeks her head out of her blanket cocoon to growl at him. He rolls his eyes at her before turning back to me. He loops the towel across his neck, folding his arms across his chest. Which only accentuates his ridiculous pecs more. “I'm sleeping on the bed.”

My eyes widen. “What? No. That's where I'm sleeping. I'm not sharing a bed with you.”

He jumps onto my bed, landing on his back. He bounces once, testing the firmness. I can't decide if I'm more annoyed by his entitlement or the fact that he's on my bed with a wet towel.

“Then you're welcome to take the floor. There's plenty of room for you and your raccoon dog. But I need this bed.” When he lifts his shirt, I swear time slows down. His abs look so chiseled and firm, I want to bounce a quarter off his stomach just to see how high it will go. “Do you know how hard it was to sculpt these?” he says, completely serious. “I need my solid eight hours of sleep. And if I don’t sleep, I don’t recover properly from my workouts. I'm not losing all that hard work because you live in a glorified shoebox.” He pulls the tank top back down to emphasize his point.

Get it together, Coco. I mentally slap myself and shove my hormones back into their box. It’s just a body. Stop mentally undressing your fake husband like a creep.

“I need sleep too. I have a job that requires mental focus. A job that actually benefits the community. Or it would, if people came to their appointments,” I mutter that last sentence under my breath.

He snorts, giving me a smug look. “Please, Coco. I really need the bed. Are you sure we can’t compromise and share? Unless you snore. I'll need you to sleep in the backyard if you do.”

“I already said no! And by the way, I don't snore.” I purposely fail to mention Mariah’s nighttime chainsaw impression; he’ll find out soon enough.

“Let's think about this logically,” he says, settling back against my pillows like he owns them. "You already turned down a luxurious evening at the Emberlight with me for that"—he sneers at Mariah—"so I think we're both safe on the seduction front. Besides, I'd rather spend another night in that demon holding cell than share this bed with you, but we don't exactly have options right now.”

It’s a good thing he couldn’t read my mind a moment ago. “I don't know . . .”

“We're adults, Coco. You're already sharing this closet you call an apartment with a stranger. What's a few inches of mattress between fake spouses? We can build a wall of pillows if it makes you feel better.” He leans across the bed and grabs two of my decorative pillows, creating a line in the middle.

I sigh, rubbing my forehead. I’m too tired to problem solve right now. “Fine. But I sleep under the covers. You sleep on top.” I flip off the lights and crawl in next to him. My bed may be queen-sized and currently divided by the great wall of pillows, but it feels as roomy as a twin with a demon on the other side.

I pull the edge of my blanket up to my chin. My skin feels hot, almost itchy against my silk pajamas. When was the last time I had a guy in my bed?

Too long , the space between my legs responds. It’s been a while since I’ve heard from her.

As I lie there in the dark, my traitorous brain decides it's the perfect time for an anatomy review. The textbook definition of a demon's vomeronasal organ floats across my mind like some twisted PowerPoint presentation. A reminder that Vale can probably smell my embarrassing cocktail of sex hormones right now. They use that additional organ to sense spikes in emotions, mainly fear and arous—

“Hey Coco?” he says, startling me. The mattress squeaks as I jump. I feel Vale roll to his side next to me. In the dark, I can just see him over a pillow, propping himself on an elbow. “Don't fall in love with me.” My breathing hitches, and he chuckles, rolling on to his back. “Man, I've always wanted to say that.”

What an ass. “Don't worry, I won't,” I deadpan. “I'm not attracted to criminals. Or demons with over-inflated egos.”

“That's what they all say at first. Not to mention it’s a bold move to lie about something that’s so easy to fact check.” He flicks his tongue in my direction.

His whispered comment hangs in the air between us. I resist the urge to smother him with a pillow. Instead, I close my eyes and pray for sleep to come quickly.

Well, if I catch him covering his mouth whenever I’m standing too close to him tomorrow, I’ll know why.

It's not personal, Vale. It's just biology.

Keep telling yourself that, Coco.

I n my dream, I'm enveloped by a cocoon of warmth. The walls tighten around me, holding me close. I feel safe and cozy swaddled in this strange chrysalis.

The cocoon shifts behind me and something firm presses against my backside. A delicious heat blooms between my legs. My body responds instinctively, arching into the firmness, my core tightening with anticipation.

My eyes flutter open, and reality crashes in. This isn’t a dream.

Vale’s arms are a vise around me, pulling me closer until his chest is flush against my back. I freeze, hardly daring to breathe. Slowly, I peek over my shoulder at his sleeping face, relaxed and unguarded.

I hate to admit it, but this feels . . . nice. And I don’t mean in a sexual way. The weight of his arm draped over me, the steady rise and fall of his chest against my back—it's been so long since I've been held like this by another person. I didn’t realize how touch starved I was until now. I indulge and savor the feeling, melting into his strong embrace.

Vale shifts in his sleep, his hot breath tickling the nape of my neck. He adjusts his hips, and the firm pressure increases against my backside. I bite back a gasp. My heart, and other areas I don’t want to think about right now, pound in response with blood.

I twist out of his arms and the bedsheets, nearly landing on my ass. Standing at the edge of the bed, I watch him warily, my pulse pounding like I just finished a 400-meter sprint. Vale sighs dreamily and rolls onto his back, limbs sprawling across the bed like a greedy starfish. My face turns bright red when I see his, um, tent pole currently pitching up underneath my blanket.

I glance at the bedside clock—I still have a full hour before my alarm. There's no way I'm crawling back into bed with him. My skin feels electrified, every nerve ending alive and singing. A run might help, but if I raise my BPM any higher, my heart might explode.

I whistle softly to Mariah across the room. She lifts her head from her bed, blinking owlishly at me. There is no one who enjoys sleeping in more than my little gremlin, but right now, she really doesn’t have a choice.

"C'mon girl," I whisper, grabbing her leash. I put on my jacket hanging next to it on the hook. "Let's go potty."

As I slip on my boots, I can't help but glance back at Vale's sleeping body. I shake my head, trying to clear it of unwelcome thoughts. This arrangement is complicated enough without biology butting in.

My blood pressure spikes when I step out onto the dewy front lawn. I glance nervously next door at the dark windows of the judge's house, hoping that he’s already left for work. I know I’ll bump into him eventually but please not today. I have too many things to worry about this morning.

"Hurry and pee," I whisper down to Mariah sniffing in the grass. She ignores me, determined to investigate every blade of grass.

Just as Mariah finally squats, Judge Grimshaw appears from behind a bush, holding a watering pail and wearing a bathrobe tied tight around his big belly.

I startle, dropping Mariah’s leash. "Oh! G-good morning, Judge Grimshaw. I didn't see you there." I quickly retrieve the leash, avoiding his stern gaze. His rain boots squish in the grass as he approaches me.

Judge Grimshaw looms over me, the outline of his horns an unsettling contrast against the soft dawn light. "Dr. Sullivan. Or should I say Mrs. Embergrave?"

I laugh nervously. "Right, yes. I know it’s not traditional, but I kept my last name.”

"I see." His hooded, black eyes narrow slightly on me. "Yet somehow in all our neighborly chats, you failed to mention your husband was Valefor Embergrave."

"Did I?" My voice pitches to an embarrassingly high level that only Mariah and other dogs can hear. "I could have sworn . . . Well, with the clinic and everything, I guess I've been a bit scattered lately."

"Scattered." He pauses, his gaze shifting pointedly to the covered bench-shaped object on his porch. I follow his gaze, confused. "An interesting choice of words, considering your husband's history."

I swallow hard. "Whatever Vale did when he was younger, I'm sure he's changed. The other night was just a momentary lapse in judgment. He regrets his actions and wants to make things right."

Judge Grimshaw leans in slightly, the scent of brimstone and burnt coffee clinging to his robe. "Does he now? Well, Mrs. Embergrave, I hope you understand that your marital status doesn't change the terms of his probation. I'll be keeping a very close eye on both of you."

I nod quickly. "Of course, Your Honor. We wouldn't expect any special treatment."

He steps back, fishing out a treat for Mariah from his robe pocket. "Good. Because I'd hate to see such a good person get caught up in any unfortunate situations." His gaze lingers on my ringless left hand. "Especially given how long you've been happily married."

I shove my hand into my jacket pocket. "No need to worry about that, Judge. We're just focusing on our work.” I smile. “And each other."

"See that you do. Oh, and Mrs. Embergrave?" As he makes his way across the grass, he pauses, his orange eyes glowing faintly in the foggy morning light. "Remind your husband that probation violations have consequences. For everyone involved."