Husband for Hire – Part Two: Fake Husband, Real Heat

Delaney knew faking a relationship wouldn’t be easy—but she didn’t expect her hired husband to be this good at it. Now they’re checked into a honeymoon suite, sharing one bed, and selling their “love story” a little too convincingly.

Between the flirty smiles, accidental touches, and pet names that hit way too hard, it’s getting harder to remember this isn’t real. And when the heat rises behind closed doors? Well… she might be in way more trouble than she thought. 

Husband for Hire – Part Two: Fake Husband, Real Heat

It’s just pretend—so why does it feel like foreplay?

Delaney

The moment we step into the resort lobby, Beau laces our fingers together like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

I stare down at our joined hands like they betrayed me. Which, technically, mine did. Because instead of yanking away or pretending I forgot how to use fingers, I let him do it. Worse… I kind of like it.

“You’re staring,” he murmurs under his breath.

“You ambushed my hand.”

“I’m playing the part, sweetheart.” He lifts our hands and kisses the back of mine, eyes twinkling with mischief. “You hired a husband. I’m just giving you your money’s worth.”

I mentally calculate how much I’m paying for this and wonder if I should’ve sprung for the less charming option.

Beau is annoyingly good at this.

The concierge takes one look at us and gives a knowing smile. “Checking in?”

“Yes, under Masters,” I say, then immediately realize what that sounds like. I clear my throat. “Delaney Masters. One room.”

“Got it,” she says, tapping away. “Honeymoon suite, just like the reservation.”

I blink. “Wait… what?”

Beau’s arm snakes around my waist before I can panic. “Perfect,” he says smoothly. “Nothing like a weekend of romance in the mountains, right, baby?”

He says baby like it’s a four-letter sin, low and slow and just for me. My stomach flips. My brain short-circuits. I briefly forget how to speak.

“Oh,” I manage, voice doing that high-pitched thing I hate. “Right. Yes. So romantic.”

She hands over the keycards with a wink. “Champagne’s already in the room. Enjoy yourselves.”

As we head for the elevator, I hiss under my breath, “Honeymoon suite?”

Beau grins. “Not my fault the agency likes to go above and beyond.”

“You could’ve corrected her.”

“I could’ve,” he says, that damn smirk creeping back. “But technically, we did just get married. Might as well enjoy the honeymoon.” Then winks at me.

I just blink at him, my mouth parting to say something but nothing comes out.

The elevator doors slide shut. We’re alone now, our reflection staring back from polished steel.

Beau leans casually against the wall, watching me with a smirk like he’s sizing up just how much trouble he plans to cause.

I fold my arms. “There better be two beds.”

“There’s not.”

I glare.

He shrugs. “It’s a king. We’ll stay on our respective sides.”

“Oh, so now you’re a gentleman.”

“I’m always a gentleman.” He pauses. “Unless you ask me not to be.”

I look away so he doesn’t see how red my face is.

The doors open on the fourth floor, and he gestures for me to step out first, all chivalrous confidence and infuriating charm.

“After you, Mrs. Carter.”

I whip my head around. “We are not doing that.”

His grin goes lazy. Dangerous. “We’re married, baby. Might as well enjoy the perks.”

And just like that, he presses a hand to the small of my back and guides me down the hall.

My skin burns where he touches me.

And we haven’t even made it to the damn room yet.

The door clicks open with a soft beep, and I step inside, mentally preparing for something modest.

It is not modest.

There’s a fireplace. A fur throw. A bed big enough to host a six-person cuddle cult. Rose petals, not a lot, but enough to imply someone really leaned into the honeymoon thing. A bottle of chilled champagne rests in an ice bucket beside two flutes on a tray.

“Oh my God,” I breathe. “They actually went full honeymoon suite.”

Beau drops his bag by the armchair and whistles low. “Damn. You sure know how to treat a guy.”

“I didn’t request this.”

“The agency did,” he says, eyeing the bed like it just presented a personal challenge. “I assume it’s part of the romantic illusion. You know, ‘look like love, sell the dream,’ that kind of thing.”

I drop my purse onto the dresser and mutter, “I was aiming for ‘stable power couple,’ not ‘softcore honeymoon special.’”

He chuckles behind me, and I feel it between my legs like a buzz of heat I can’t ignore.

“You’re tense,” he says, walking farther into the room. “Nervous about the retreat? Or nervous about sharing a bed with me?”

I spin around, pointing at him. “No smug husband-y seduction tactics. We have rules.”

He raises both hands like he’s surrendering. “You got it. Just here to hold your hand and pretend I don’t fantasize about you when I shower.”

“Beau.”

“What?” His eyes gleam. “I’m not breaking the rules. I’m just making it harder for you to remember them.”

I grab the champagne bottle and shove it into the mini fridge. “You’re sleeping on the left side.”

“That’s my good side anyway.”

I ignore him. Or I try to.

But as he unbuttons his sleeves and rolls them up, I catch myself staring again. At his forearms. The veins. The ink. The subtle flex of muscle.

And just like that, my body betrays me all over again.

One weekend. That’s all this is.

Just three days of pretending we’re something we’re not.

So why the hell does it already feel too good to fake?

…………

Beau’s hand finds mine as soon as we step into the cocktail mixer.

It’s confident. Deliberate. The kind of touch meant to be noticed. He laces our fingers like he’s been doing it for years, like this is muscle memory, like I’m his.

He leans in slightly and says against my temple, “Time to sell it, sweetheart.”

And then he smiles.

It’s the kind of smile that should come with a warning label. Warm and slow and lethal in its aim. A few heads turn. I feel more than one woman sizing him up. I get it. I’d do the same if I didn’t already want to throw myself down a flight of stairs for hiring a man this attractive to pretend to love me.

“Two glasses of the sparkling rosé,” he says to the bartender with easy charm. Then, to me, “Unless you want something stronger, babe?”

Babe.

Oh, we’re already doing pet names.

I shake my head, pasting on a smile. “Rosé is perfect, darling.”

His smirk ticks higher. “Look at you. Fully committed.”

“You started it.”

“I finish things too.”

My face heats. I take my glass the second it lands on the bar and sip like it’s a distraction, not an excuse to keep my mouth busy while I think about his.

We mingle. Smile. Shake hands. And through it all, Beau doesn’t drop character once.

He laughs when I laugh. Holds my hand like he’s doing it absentmindedly. Resting his palm on my lower back. Brushing my hair behind my ear. Whispering something in my ear just to make me react.

Every touch is subtle. Soft. Intentional.

And worse, I can’t tell if he’s performing for them or just enjoying watching me squirm.

“You good?” he asks softly, stepping just close enough that his chest brushes mine.

I nod, but it’s not convincing. “You’re very… good at this.”

He grins. “You expected less?”

“I expected you to be a prop, not a method actor.”

He laughs. “Sorry, sweetheart. I don’t do anything halfway.”

Before I can answer, a familiar voice cuts in.

“Delaney?”

I turn and it’s Vanessa Carver. Keller’s marketing lead. The one who told me my social media presence was “a bit too independent for someone selling traditional values.” She’s holding a glass of white wine and wearing a tight smile that screams judgment.

“Vanessa, hi,” I say, surprised I don’t choke on it. “Didn’t expect to see you at the welcome mixer.”

“Robert insisted,” she says coolly, then glances at Beau. “And you are…?”

Beau steps in seamlessly. “Beau Carter. Delaney’s husband.”

Her eyebrows lift. “Oh. I hadn’t realized you were married.”

Beau smiles like she just complimented his jawline. “Five years. Feels like fifty, right, babe?”

I almost laugh, but it comes out as a snort.

“We met at a client mixer just like this,” I say, going with it. “He spilled champagne on my shoes. I called him an asshole. He offered to pay for dry cleaning and a drink. I took the drink.”

Beau grins at her. “And then she never stopped taking my drinks or my money.”

Vanessa doesn’t laugh, but she smiles, just barely. “Well, I suppose it’s nice to see something working.”

As she turns to walk away, Beau slides an arm around my waist and murmurs against my cheek, “We nailed that.”

My heart is thudding. My skin feels flushed. And I’m not sure if it’s the wine, the praise, or the fact that I liked the way he held me just a little too much.

He’s still close. Still looking at me like I’m not entirely off-limits.

“You okay?” he asks again, lower this time. “You’re breathing hard.”

“I’m fine,” I lie. “Just playing the part.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.

“You sure about that?”

Because the problem is…

I’m not.

…………

I don’t say a word until the door to our suite clicks shut behind us.

Then I spin.

“What was that?”

Beau raises an eyebrow as he shrugs out of his blazer. “That,” he says, calmly, like he didn’t just make my ovaries do gymnastics in front of half the PR elite, “was called acting.”

“You had your hand on my ass,” I snap, pacing the room like it personally offended me. “You told that woman we met because you spilled champagne on me. I liked that story.”

He starts unbuttoning his shirt one slow notch at a time. “You’re welcome.”

“I wasn’t thanking you.”

“No, but you’re still thinking about it.”

I freeze mid-pace. “You’re full of yourself.”

He smiles, and I wish I didn’t like the way it looks on him, relaxed and wicked, like he’s got every upper hand and knows I’m five seconds away from throwing myself at his very smug chest.

“You were perfect,” I mutter, finally sitting down on the edge of the bed. “Too perfect.”

He tosses the shirt over a chair, leaving him in a white ribbed tank that clings to his chest and shoulders in a way that should be illegal.

“Careful,” he says, walking past me to grab a bottle of water from the fridge. “Sounds like you’re developing a crush.”

“I’m not.” That came out way too fast. “I’m just saying… you’re dangerously good at being a fake husband.”

He takes a long sip and leans against the counter. “That’s what you hired me for.”

“And the touching?”

“That’s also what you hired me for.”

I glare at him. “There will be no touching. Or kissing. Or pet names that make my thighs clench.”

That earns me a full-blown grin. “I like that you think I’m in control of your thighs.”

“Jesus Christ.”

He chuckles, pushing off the counter and walking toward the bed. “Fine. We’ll stick to the rules.”

“Good.”

He leans over and grabs a pillow, tossing it to the left side. “You sleep over there. I don’t bite.”

“Even if I asked?” The words are out before I can stop them and my eyes go wide.

He pauses. Cocks his head. “You asking?”

I shoot to my feet. “No.”

I take one step and immediately catch my toe on the edge of the bedspread. I stumble forward, right into him. His hands find my waist before I can catch myself. Hot. Solid.

My hands land on his chest, and holy hell, he feels good.

We don’t move.

We don’t breathe.

His fingers flex, just a little. His eyes flick from mine to my mouth and back again. And just for a second, I forget this is fake. I forget why we’re here. All I can think about is how close his mouth is to mine and how badly I want to know what it feels like.

“I should…” I start, but don’t finish.

I don’t even know what I was going to say.

He lets me go slowly, deliberately, like he’s daring me to lean back in.

I don’t.

I take a shaky step back, grab my toiletries bag like it’s a flotation device, and mutter, “I’m taking a shower. Alone.”

“Damn,” he says softly as I reach the bathroom door. It’s low. Rough. Like I just took something he didn’t realize he needed.“There goes my night.”

I shut the door behind me and press my back to it.

Then I squeeze my eyes shut and mouth the words:

Get. A. Grip.

To be Continued. Come back tomorrow for part three

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

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Published by LS Phoenix

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First Edition: September 2025

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