CHAPTER NINETEEN
DUFFY
I woke up to the scent of something carby and sinful.
Unbothered by the empty calories I’d consumed the day before in the form of vodka, my mouth began to water. I shifted in my bed. Since my duvet was half-burned from last night’s indiscretion, I’d slept without a blanket. I couldn’t believe I’d nearly burned down my flat to have sex.
Come to think of it, I couldn’t believe I’d had sex. Enjoyable sex at that.
Last night’s events flooded back into my memory, and with them a mixture of giddy excitement and crushing dread.
I’d shacked it up with my husband. My hotter-than-Hades husband.
After consummating our marriage, we ordered pizza (pizza! On a weekday!), had watermelon margaritas Riggs made with jalapeños (delicious), and went to sleep in our separate beds. Well, in Riggs’s case, the couch. No doubt I could have offered him my bed for the night, but I didn’t want to seem needy.
Plus, I didn’t want him to see that as an invitation to stick his knob in me whenever he fancied. Even if I did want a rerun of last night’s showing. I felt like my body had been possessed by a woman who was actually capable of having fun.
After I finished brushing my teeth and putting on a sensible dress, I padded to the living room, where I found a pile of fluffy and warm waffles stacked neatly on a plate on the coffee table.
“My God, talk about beauty and grace!” I cooed, rushing to the waffles.
I grabbed the plate and brought the waffles to my nose, sniffing. “You innocent little babies. Who put you here, in harm’s way?”
Saliva gathered in my mouth. These waffles were the real deal. Where did Riggs get them?
The bathroom door opened, and Riggs walked outside, looking twice as wicked as the treat I was holding.
“Finally, you’re up.” He ambled over to the kitchenette, where he popped open butter and chocolate syrup.
I deduced he’d bought them, since there wasn’t a weapon in the world you could threaten me with to make me willingly welcome chocolate into my home. “Hurry up, we gotta eat them before they get cold.”
“Eat them?” I gasped at the blasphemy, putting the plate down before I did something stupid. “Riggs, I can’t do back-to-back cheat days, and we already had pizza yesterday.”
“You can and you should. I checked, and there are no laws against having fun in the state of New York.” He squeezed the chocolate syrup all over the waffles. “Besides, I’ve seen you naked, so I have the authority to say you can definitely afford it.”
I felt myself blushing from head to toe.
“I’m sorry. I appreciate the gesture, but I just can’t . . . Where did you even buy them?”
“Buy what?” He sat down and, using a fork and a knife, cut a huge bite of waffles and chocolate for himself.
“The waffles,” I heard myself say, my stomach grumbling loudly.
“Didn’t buy them.” He took the bite, chewing. “Made them.”
“Made them?”
“Yup.” He popped another bite into his mouth. The bloody man was going to eat all of them before I could have a taste. “Just bought an old-school waffle maker downstairs, and the ingredients. Easy-peasy. Wanna try?” He angled a forkful of goodness my way.
I shouldn’t. I really shouldn’t. But oh, I wanted to. I bit down on my lower lip.
“Nr, buh thrrr fr degestte,” I mumbled.
“Do you have that in English?” He raised his head from the HALF-EMPTY plate. I needed to work fast if I wanted a taste. “Couldn’t hear you with your tongue swimming in saliva.”
I opened my mouth begrudgingly. “No, but thank you for the gesture.”
“No prob. I figured if you ate them, I’d win brownie points for best husband, and if you didn’t, I could torture you by showing you what you were missing.”
“Knobhead,” I huffed and laughed simultaneously.
“Stuck up,” he said cheerfully, taking another bite.
This was too much. The smell. The aesthetically pleasing, golden squares. The melting butter. The chocolate. The man who ate them.
“Oh, fine!” I plopped down next to him, prying the fork from his hand savagely. “I’ll try your bloody waffles.”
He watched me intently, a smile on his face. The bastard was gloating. I was about to stab him with the very fork I’d just pried from his fingers.
I took a bite with a perfect waffle-butter-chocolate ratio, then proceeded to close my eyes and moan. This was unreal. Sweet and salty in equal measures. Still hot, crispy on the outside, and soft on the inside.
No way the man was this gorgeous, this good in bed, and knew how to make the best waffles in America. He was a weapon of mass destruction.
“This is awful,” I cried out, taking another bite.
He was full on grinning now. “Yeah, looks like you’re suffering.”
“By that, I mean that it’s delicious. Where did you learn how to make them?”
“Belgium.”
I almost forgot he traveled the world, picking up tricks and tidbits everywhere he went for his bag of talents.
“Do you always learn how to cook the local food everywhere you go?”
He slipped an arm around my shoulder. “All I can say is, you should try my pizza.”
Ugh.This man was great for my sex life and horrible for my waistline.
“This”—I pointed with my fork—“is the best waffle I’ve ever tasted. Better than the one at that diner. What’s your secret ingredient?” I demanded. “It’s not yeasted batter. I know because I’ve tried.”
He made a zipping motion with his mouth.
“You’re seriously not going to tell me?” I thundered. So far we’d managed not to broach the subject of us having sex. Maybe he’d forgotten about it altogether? He did seem to smoke pot quite excessively.
“My waffles are my leverage. I’m not going to give it away without serious concession on your behalf.” He stood up, trekked to the kitchenette, and seized a beer from the fridge. He felt at home. He looked at home too. And that was an even bigger problem.
He shut the fridge with his foot. “What’s up with you? What are you doing today?”
I groaned, finishing off the rest of his waffles. “Looking for jobs, what else?”
“Didn’t you say no one would consider you before you get your visa?”
I nodded solemnly, running the pad of my index finger over the chocolate residue on the plate, sucking it clean. The visa. We hadn’t even discussed the blasted thing since we got married, because I’d been avoiding him. Since when was I so bloody scatterbrained? “I think they’re worried it’s going to take time. The timeline for being granted a visa can be unpredictable. Not to mention, the last place said they’re interviewing to fill out the positions in the next few weeks. They can’t wait four or five months.”
He took a pull of his beer, and I pretended not to notice he was drinking at eight thirty in the morning. “So why don’t you wait it out?”
I smiled calmly. “That’s a very good question, Riggs. The answer is—because money doesn’t grow on trees.”
At this point, I was seriously considering doing the odd admin job and getting paid under the table just to resume the money flow. I was worried about paying my rent and all the bills without a steady income. There was only so much strain I could put on my savings.
“Take the day off,” he suggested unhelpfully.
“I can’t do that,” I said.
“Tag along with me.”
“I’m sorry, did you lose your hearing in the time between now and five minutes ago?” I frowned. “I can’t afford to take a day off, Riggs. I’m literally on the verge of shoeshining to keep my head above water.”
He looked bored with the conversation. How couldn’t he understand? Clearly, he was no stranger to hardship.
“Tell you what.” He spun the beer bottle’s cap on his index finger, like it was a basketball. “We’ll make a stop at that lawyer lady’s office and fill out our visa application.”
“All I can hear is more money for me to spend.”
“Would you stop talking about money?” he asked through gritted teeth.
“Would you stop pretending it is not an issue for both of us?” I countered.
“I’ll pay you to spend the day with me!” he snapped. “Happy?”
I jerked back and laughed so hard my stomach hurt. “Thanks for the laugh. I needed that.” I stood up, carrying the plate to the sink. “And for the waffles too. They were marvelous. Shall I grab ramen for dinner? My treat.”
His gaze followed me. “I’m serious. I’ll pay you to spend the day with me. I need an assistant for my Discovery project.”
“Since when do you need an assistant?” I narrowed my eyes.
“Since today,” he said grumpily.
“You’ve never needed one before.”
“Don’t question my process.” He scowled.
Suppressing a smile, I asked, “All right. What does an assistant do for you?”
Please say “Suck me off,”I thought, followed by the harrowing question—Since when did I start talking like that? Even in my head?
Riggs rubbed his chin, mulling over the question. “Carry my equipment, help me set up the lighting, serve as a placeholder when I try out different lenses . . .” He frowned. “Polish my shoes, wipe my ass, stroke my co—”
“As much as this assistant would like to sue you for sexual harassment, I can do without the rest of this sentence,” I singsonged, rinsing the plate in the sink. “How much are you paying?”
Not that it mattered. I wasn’t in a position to negotiate. Minimum wage would be fine.
Riggs slung his elbows over the counter, his body angled toward mine. “What’s the rate for photography assistants these days?”
“I have no idea.” I laughed. “I just became one fifteen seconds ago.”
“Two grand? Flat rate for the entire date?” he suggested.
“Two grand?” I spluttered. “Riggs, how are you going to come up with that kind of money? You can’t even pay for the subwa—” I zipped it, perhaps a moment too late, seeing as he was now looking at me with an unidentified expression that made me want to swallow all my words back.
“It’s all about money for you, isn’t it?” he asked quietly.
“I mean . . . isn’t it to everyone?”
He shook his head, looking pensive.
“To answer your question, while I can’t afford it, the company can. Discovery pays for my photography aide. It’s a perk. So I’ll pay you and send the bill to them.”
That sounded so . . . odd. At the same time, for a reason I couldn’t quite fathom, I knew Riggs was going to come up with that money. He’d never let me down before and had always made good on his promises. Unlike BJ.
Speaking of the knobhead, I could use a distraction. Working with Riggs for the day would not only be good for my wallet but also my psyche. Besides, how bad could it be, working for the man I’d married to deceive the authorities and had had wild sex with just yesterday? What could possibly go wrong?
“What if the solicitor doesn’t have time for us today?” I asked, remembering we needed to send our application to the USCIS.
He laughed sardonically. “Do you know who I a—” Riggs stopped abruptly, clearing his throat. “She will. She’s a good friend of Christian’s.”
Did he just pull the Do-you-know-who-I-am routine? How peculiar. He was literally . . . well, I was going to say no one, but that wasn’t right. He was a lot for me.
“So where are we off to, partner?” I offered Riggs my pinkie.
“The most romantic place in the world.” He laced his pinkie in mine, swinging our arms together while taking another sip of his beer. “An abandoned prison.”
Felicity Zimmerman had a corner office in one of Manhattan’s glitziest skyscrapers. She was a freakishly attractive woman in her forties and treated us as if we were royalty. She said she’d hold our hands through the entire process, first filing for a CR1 visa and then, two weeks after, a green card.
She went on to fill out the I-130A form with us and said she’d send it from her office and pull some strings with her friends in the immigration office. It all sounded very reassuring and terribly expensive.
Felicity explained that since Riggs was the petitioner, he wouldn’t have to attend the interview himself, but that it would look lovely if he accompanied me when the time came.
“Optics are the name of the game.” She looked between us, making eye contact to ensure we were on board. “And since everything you’ve filed in your I-130A is fairly recent, establishing a strong relationship and for Mr. Bates to show up with you would put the adjudicating officer at ease. Even if he won’t be able to enter the actual interview.”
“That’s fine,” Riggs said. “I’ll make sure I’m there.”
At the end of the hour, I asked Felicity how much she charged. Probably I should’ve begun with that question, but I didn’t want to be anxious the entire meeting.
“Nine hundred per hour.” She smiled.
“Cents?” I hoped.
Riggs laughed. I whimpered. When we left her office, he patted my back.
“Don’t worry, Poppins. We’ll sell your organs on the black market.”