It was true, but he was also her disruption, and despite having a mirror chat with herself about all the reasons why it was foolish—namely how this whole marriage of theirs was a total fake—she missed him.

She flopped down on the couch with a groan, and since she was already focused on the dumb things she was doing, she reached for her planner filled with all the details about the building Christmas party. She scanned the to-do list as her gut churned. Yep. It had definitely been a craptastic idea to suggest this. This was what happened when she decided that it would be fun to host a party. Eventually she had to actually have the party, which meant all of the work that went with putting on a party and—the worst part—actually interacting with people. Once she started chatting with her neighbors, it would be fine, but up until that moment, she’d be nothing but a ball of anxiety soaked in kerosene, standing by a lit match.

Note to self: never volunteer to put on a party ever again.

The dogs heard Nash’s key in the door before she did, snapping out of a dead sleep to bound off the couch and rush to the front door. She shoved her planner aside, jumped up from the couch, and had checked herself in the mirror to smooth her hair into place and make sure she didn’t have lettuce from today’s lunch stuck between her teeth before he even cleared the foyer.

Damn, woman, what are you, some nineteen-fifties housewife?

She should be giving herself a serious talking-to about being this excited to see her fake temporary husband, but she was too excited to see Nash to go through the motions. He walked into the living room, the dogs yapping happily as they circled his ankles. And when he looked at her, all of the nervous energy that had been zapping her since he’d left for an emergency trip to the office this morning melted away as if it had never existed.

“Hey, honey,” he said as he gave her a weary smile. “I’m home.”

She was about to tease him about almost being late for dinner when she realized his smile was only a single dimpler. That couldn’t be good. Then she looked closer at him, concern tightening her stomach. Nash looked exhausted—well, as much as a hot guy in a custom-made suit could. His shoulders were slumped, his tie was askew, and he had the thousand-mile stare of someone who had seen some shit at the office.

“Do you want me to take the dogs for a walk?” He set his briefcase down with a tired sigh and then draped his suit jacket over the back of the chair, rolling his neck from side to side. “I can run down the block to the deli on the corner and grab sandwiches for us for dinner tonight.”