The wedding came a bit suddenly, and I wasn't used to it yet.
After work, I met up with my best friend for drinks, and we partied until 11 p.m. The phone screen on the booth suddenly lit up. Peyton was calling. He was working overtime today.
I answered, and he asked, "Why aren't you home? Are you at your parents' place?" His warm voice halted abruptly when he heard the noise on my end. I swallowed. "The usual place, are you coming?"
Everything seemed the same as before, but somehow, in this moment, I felt an awkwardness as if I had been caught. He mumbled "Mm" and hung up.
Joaquin Parrish came over with a glass of wine, "Your husband seems pretty into it."
I took the glass and drank it down in one go, wiping my mouth. "Don't even mention it."
Peyton was really thorough, there wasn't a single flaw to pick out.
The second day of our marriage, I naturally went back to my parents' house. It wasn't until he called to ask where I was that I realized I was married. For the next week, he picked me up after work and dropped me off in the morning, as punctual as a clock. At home, he rolled up his sleeves and got to work in the kitchen, making sure every meal was different.
The treatment was similar to before, but somehow, now that we were married, it felt odd to enjoy it. Joaquin poked a piece of fruit into her mouth, chewing as she thought. "He can't possibly like you, can he?"
"That's just for appearances," I said, giving her a side-eye. "It's to keep Peyton's stock price steady." Arranged marriages were meant for mutual benefit, after all, and if the stock dropped, it would go against the original intention.
"Still, he cooks for you?"
Joaquin forked another piece of fruit, and I took a bite, "Doesn't he eat?" It's not like it matters to me.
"Right."
To stop her from making wild assumptions, I added quickly,
"We're just friends," I said, just as the dim light above us was suddenly blocked.
I looked up to see Peyton's face clouded with uncertainty, and my defiant attitude instantly dropped by half.
Joaquin's big eyes darted between us, and she swiftly grabbed her bag. "I'll get going."
With that, she stomped her high heels and vanished.
Wasn't she supposed to call a driver to send me home?
So much for friendship when trouble comes knocking.
I gritted my teeth but could only turn to Peyton and raise my glass. "Want a drink?"
He had already come, after all.
"How are you going to drive after drinking?" I asked, but he calmly set his glass aside. "Let's go, home it is." The breeze outside was a little chilly, and Peyton casually draped a scarf around my neck. I tucked it into my collar, and a faint hint of grapefruit fragrance lingered.
He took a few quick steps to the car, then pulled out a pair of fluffy slippers from the passenger seat and placed them at my feet. I paused for a second, then slipped off my high heels, instantly relieved from the ache in my feet. I smiled. "You're a pretty decent pretend husband." Peyton hesitated for a moment as he reached for my heels, then looked up at me.
"After all, we have a friendship."
"You heard that?" Realizing he had caught all of our conversation, I froze for a moment but didn't mind much. I climbed into the passenger seat and sighed. "You're so meticulous, it almost makes me regret it."
Peyton quickly fastened my seatbelt and asked, "What's something you regret?"
"I wish I had a younger brother."
Due to the legendary bloodline suppression, I had always been my sister's servant since I was young. However, with what Peyton Westbrook did just now, I suddenly experienced the sweetness of being "served."
He held the steering wheel with one hand and handed me a glass bottle with his right hand, saying gently, "Isn't it okay to be a big brother?" I took the bottle in my hand, easily twisted off the cap, and sipped the sweet grapefruit juice. Watching the night sky rush by outside the window, I slowly nodded.
"I wouldn't mind having an older brother," I said. Peyton gave a small smile but didn't reply.
