30. Instant Wife, Just Add Plants

30

INSTANT WIFE, JUST ADD PLANTS

Maeve

“Put the ponytail palm next to the plastic orchid,” I say, setting my real plants beside Asher’s Lego creations in the spacious living room.

Beckett looks at me, frazzled. “Which one is the ponytail palm?”

Reina rolls her eyes dramatically at her husband. “The one that looks like a ponytail,” she says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“It’s the cute one,” I explain, pointing to the small succulent with long, wild green leaves shooting from the top like an untamed hairstyle. “It looks like it has crazy hair.”

“Like when I wake up,” Reina jokes, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

Beckett raises both hands in surrender. “I’m staying out of trouble on this one, since your hair always looks beautiful,” he says, backing away from the chaos that’s taken over Asher’s home. Me—I’m the chaos.

The door code Asher sent felt like an open invitation, and now here we are—setting up house. It’s weird, no doubt about it. But also…kind of fun. “I’ll handle it. It’s highly recommended for any aspiring plant ladies,” I say, grabbing the ponytail palm from the foyer table where Beckett had set it when he lugged in my plants from his car a few minutes ago. It’s next to a stack of mail and a couple boxes that arrived for Asher this week. Things he asked me to bring in when he gave me the code. Like a wife would do and vice versa. Yep, we’re playing house.

I carry the plant to the corner table in the living room, placing it beside the fiddle leaf fig I positioned earlier, adding another layer of green. My fingers brush against the smooth plastic of a Lego rose, and I pause, touched. I knew Asher had built the Lego orchid I gifted him years ago, but I didn’t realize he’d made so many more. There are easily a half-dozen Lego plants now—roses and sunflowers and tiny shrubbery too. The table is a mix of real greenery and his creations. It’s an odd contrast, but it works.

“This’ll look good for the TV crew, right? Sort of a his-and-hers vibe,” I say.

“Yeah, his-and-hers weird plants,” Beckett teases.

Reina swats him lightly. “They’re not weird.”

“They’re a little weird.”

“You strip in your sleep. That’s weird,” she shoots back.

I cover my ears. “Okay, okay. I don’t need to know about my brother’s weird sleeping—or stripping—habits,” I say, then drop my hands with a grin.

I adjust the fake and real plants a bit more. The evening light filters through the windows, bathing the room in a soft glow. It’s Thursday. I spent the day working on color palettes for the mural scenes Eleanor approved.

But I put work and the thousand-mile-a-minute speed of the project out of my head for a moment, pausing to take in Asher’s home. After a long day, we’re staging the house with some of my things, making it look like I actually live here for the camera crew that’ll come this weekend. It’s surreal, but in a few short hours, the house has started to feel more like mine. Will this feel as surreal to Asher as it does to me?

I walk around the first floor. Asher’s not a minimalist. His game room houses a pool table and framed baseball memorabilia, newspaper clippings from World Series victories. Past the game room, there’s a home gym, then a terrace overlooking a small backyard. They’re so rare in the city, but of course so are homes this spacious and appointed. A small outdoor structure, like a sunroom, sits in the far corner of the yard, on a floating deck with evergreen shrubs and wildflowers surrounding it. I could see myself drinking a chai latte or a glass of wine there, but I’m not sure I can picture Asher relaxing there in the afternoons. He’s not really a cat, like me. I turn around and head back. In the living room and kitchen, more art hangs on the walls and my heart squeezes because many of the pieces are ones I helped him choose: wildflower illustrations, fruit sketches, and San Francisco caricatures. Some of my own work is here too—prints from my “animal phase,” which I am still in, like the dog painting with the saying Every Bite You Take, I’ll Be Watching You , and a jungle-themed print of a monkey instructing the viewer to Get Up to Monkey Business . In the kitchen, a hook designed for dog leashes holds skate laces from each season he’s played for The Sea Dogs.

Beckett and Reina move around beside it, setting up a few mugs they snagged from my apartment. “Everyone knows a woman needs her own mug,” Reina says, organizing them.

“Or twenty,” Beckett mutters.

“You wish I had twenty,” she says.

“More like twenty thousand,” I joke.

“Like I said, women need their special mugs. For their moods,” she adds.

I leave them to their mug moods as I tend to my candle moods, moving through the home to place candles on every available surface. Lemon cake scent in the kitchen, vanilla in the living room, banana bread in the hallway. The scents mingle, making the place feel lived in. But I haven’t ventured into the main bedroom yet.

“Are they going to film in the main bedroom?” I ask when I return to the kitchen, unsure how far we’re supposed to take this TV shoot.

Reina gives me an uncertain look. “I don’t know…That feels kind of personal?”

“I agree. But you never know. Should I put a photo in there or something?”

“Probably a good idea. And maybe a few of your things just in case,” she suggests.

I nod, thinking of the items I stashed in the guest room on the first floor to avoid overstepping. My clothes, my lotions and potions—which, it turns out, have multiplied like Reina’s mugs. I had no idea I owned two sweet plum body sprays, a sunset blossom one, a desert willow one, and a white lilies spray until I scooped everything off my bathroom shelf and tossed it into a canvas bag. But here we are. Evidently, I’m a girl who likes pretty smells—and pretty lotions, judging by the tons of bottles I somehow managed to bring.

“You could put them in the bathroom you’re sharing,” Reina says gently.

“Just make sure there are five of your things for every one of his. No one will ever doubt your marriage then,” Beckett adds with a playful grin.

That earns him another swat from Reina, then a quick peck. “You’re not wrong,” she says, before she checks her phone and sighs. “We should head out—it’s getting late.”

It’s past nine. I nod. “Go ahead. I can handle the rest.”

They’ve already helped haul over suitcases, plants, and some of my artwork. Reina was careful to make everything look like I truly live here.

But once they leave, a strange quiet falls over the house. I walk slowly through the living room. It feels intimate, yet strange, to be here alone in my fake husband’s home, like some kind of interloper in his life. This isn’t a quick visit to my friend’s house anymore, an evening hang, a game night, a dinner. This is his space, his life, and now…I’m here for several days, leaving pieces of myself in each room, like this belongs to me as much as it does to him.

No, like it belongs to us.

His presence lingers here, woven into every room, every scent, every small trace of him. I run a hand over the back of the couch, my fingers brushing the fabric as I imagine him sinking down on the cushions, filling this space with his easy confidence, with his warm, woodsy scent, with his cocky smile.

I imagine him everywhere. I close my eyes, and I can feel him here, in a way .

In a way I long for.

In a way that’s getting harder to ignore.

But I have to ignore it. We set down rules in Vegas, then reestablished them the other week before our brunch with the Greers—nothing physical. Then broke them again after the board dinner. Because sex complicates everything. So do feelings. Those fuckers really complicate things. Our fake marriage is already one huge complication; that’s why we have rules. Rules I’ll need to work hard to stick to when he returns tomorrow.

I need to focus on that.

I open my eyes and shove those thoughts away as I head to the foyer and grab my small pink duffel bag—the one I didn’t go through in front of Beckett or Reina. I rummage through it and pull out a small box of special things I brought to make this all seem even more real—framed photos and one piece of art. Something I hope he likes. I go room to room, adding the framed pics one by one. For the camera crew of course. For the shoot.

After I finish placing the last frame in the living room, I go to the foyer and grab one more thing. A piece of art I made for him—a little mirror with a sketch on it. A new design I’m playing with. But where should I hang it? I check out the walls. It’s not really my place to hammer nails and hang items. So I bring it to the plant table and rest it against his Lego orchid.

I step back, staring at the room. What will Asher think when he sees all this? Will he be surprised? Uncomfortable? Amused? No idea.

When I finish, I take pictures of the rooms, then stand in the kitchen and text my friends, attaching the photos.

Maeve: Look—instant wife. Just add pillows, perfume, and plants. But here’s the question—where should I sleep tonight?

Everly: That couch looks like it’s made of pillows.

Fable: The guest room looks like a five-star hotel.

Josie: The carpet looks like you could fuck on it and not get rug burn.

Leighton: Girl, sleep in his bed.

I glance toward the stairs leading up to his bedroom, my heart racing dangerously fast. Do I really sleep in his bed? It feels too intimate without him here. But where will I sleep tomorrow? My stomach flips. No idea. We didn’t discuss that when he asked me to move in for the weekend. Maybe I should just head home.

I text Asher to let him know everything’s set up and that I might go home for the evening. I don’t want to presume I’m welcome tonight too. His reply comes instantly.

Asher: Stay the night, wife.

It’s like he can read my mind.

Maeve: Without you? Are you sure you want me taking over everything? Because I probably will. It’s the inevitability of me.

Asher: My house is your house.

Yeah, except his house is about twenty times larger than mine.

Maeve: You’ve been warned.

Asher: It’ll be more believable. It’ll smell like you then.

Maeve: You like the smell of paint and struggling artist?

Asher: Yes, but mostly you smell like plums, sunsets, or wildflowers.

My breath hitches as I stand in the now-quiet kitchen. He’s so casual about it, but something about the way he’s cataloged my body sprays makes me shiver. I bite my lip, then reply.

Maeve: All three? At once?

Asher: No. It depends on the day. Keeps me on my toes. And yes, you can and should sleep in my bed. It’s fucking otherworldly comfortable .

Talk about intimate. Talk about an invitation. I’m not sure I can resist RSVPing.

I grab my canvas bag and head upstairs, down the hallway to the main bedroom where I push open the door. The room is vast, with a huge king-size bed. Like it’s enchanting me, I walk over to it, then drop my bag on the floor. I run a hand along the soft dove-gray duvet, then picture Asher in it. Taking up all the space with his big, strong frame, rippling muscles, tousled hair, and bossy, commanding charm. What does he look like when he goes to bed? When he wakes up? In the middle of the night when he dreams? I reach into my bag and set down a couple paperbacks on the nightstand. A new book I checked out from Josie’s library since I needed a tearjerker. And then my familiar copy of If Found, Please Return. With my phone still in hand, the thoughts of Asher weave around me as I wander to the palatial bathroom with a shower that’s begging for me to try it. My phone buzzes.

Asher: And use the rainfall shower. You’ll love it.

I’m convinced now he can read my mind. Or maybe he’s spying.

Maeve: Are you watching me? Do you have cameras? That’s where I am. Checking out this bathroom I could live in.

Asher: Shame, but no. I don’t.

I shiver again from the innuendo. But does he really want to watch me? I think of Vegas, his hands on me, his mouth latched onto mine, his words in my ear.

Maybe he does.

I swallow roughly, past the wild uncertainty of this situation. I turn around and glance at the framed picture of us I’d placed on his nightstand earlier, then drop the phone on the counter.

As I strip off my clothes, I leave a trail on the bathroom floor, my skin already buzzing from the thought of him. The air feels heavier than usual as I step into the rainfall shower, letting the heat and steam wrap around me. I reach for his body wash, twist the cap open, and the scent of him hits me instantly—clean and fresh with that hint of oak. It floods my senses, and suddenly, it’s like he’s here, standing just behind me. His hands skimming my warm, wet skin. His mouth caressing my neck. His arms roping around me, nice and tight. Most of all, his mouth telling me to sink down to my knees.

My pulse rockets, and I ache everywhere.

I let out a shaky breath, trying to shake away the thought of me on my knees, my hands on his hips, my lips parted, but it clings to me like the steam. It’s getting harder to deny this attraction, especially here in the heat of the shower where I want to give in.

Even though it’s a very bad idea. Because giving in could ruin this beautiful friendship that we both desperately need.

When I’m out, I wrap myself in a big, fluffy towel and twist another over my hair. I text him, though that’s probably a bad idea too.

Maeve: I showered. Because you told me to.

Asher: Good. I like it when you do what I say.

I pause, staring at the heady words. It was one thing to pretend we were married while living apart. It’ll be entirely another thing while we live together, even for a few days.