Accidentally Married to the Billionaire 2(16)

Marj kissed his cheek, leaving the barest hint of red on his scruff and wiping it with her thumb almost affectionately. He had stood up for her and had called her irresistible. Take that, Lena, she thought. The people reading Page Six tomorrow or crawling the society blogs tonight would not see a rich man with an emergency bride to help get his inheritance. They’d see a pair of amorous newlyweds who couldn’t keep their hands off each other. He was so good at being convincing it was tempting to believe he was in earnest. It would be so dangerously easy to think him sincere.

Together they went inside the theater, opulent in gold and red, with velvet hangings on the walls, ornate railings that were rather more decorative than an actual safety feature for those on the mezzanine and balcony levels. Brandon had a box, a curtained off, old-fashioned private viewing box. Of course, he did. Because billionaires were the American variation on royalty and everyone knew that money bought you better air, more privacy and more comfortable seats. There was a tufted velveteen couch, long and low, that gave Marj impure thoughts. A bottle of chardonnay chilled on the table and a waiter poured her a glass. She sipped it, cool and crisp, and thought how perfect it was for the light, airy dance that went on below them.

She wasn’t much interested in the ballet itself apart from the evident athleticism of the dancers, their powerful legs propelling them through the air to turn as delicately as leaves in the wind, belying their strength. She was interested in seeing Brandon for the first real block of time they’d been together since Lena’s dinner—and that hadn’t exactly been quality time, considering the lawyers and the Wicked Queen and all the oysters and kale and insults that went by.

Brandon studied the program like it was his job, eyes flitting down to the stage below as if to ascertain the presence of some dancer he’d seen listed in the booklet. This went on for ten minutes. She wondered absently if there was to be a quiz of some sort afterward to determine who’d paid attention and who had only been there for an excuse to dress up and wear diamonds. She fell squarely into the latter category. She’d rather watch a zombie flick than a lot of people prancing around in tights.

She wondered if it was too braggy to post that she was at the opening night of the ballet with her handsome husband. Would it raise questions as to why she was on social media if she was really so enthralled with the dance? Bemused, she refrained from posting anything despite the impulse to excite envy in her followers who obviously weren’t bored and wishing for a snack. She looked around idly to see if the box came with a minifridge, which, sadly, it did not.

“Let me see the program,” she ventured, and he passed it to her, his eyes still on the stage.

Marj leafed through the columns of fine text listing overtures and instrumentalists in the orchestra and principal dancers. There was nothing in the way of a schedule like, first fifteen minutes, second fifteen minutes and identifying movements or actions…she was looking for a sign that the show was about over with. Nothing seemed different. There was still a backdrop of dreamy painted waves and a boat, a few twinkly lights.

Her workaholic husband seemed to be relaxed, enjoying the performance like a real ballet fan. Marj did one of the things she’d sworn she’d never do. She watched him. Drinking in the sight of him longingly, as one would gaze at a beautiful object one could never really have. Admiration with a blade of jealousy, of possessive wistfulness seized her. She watched him, intent with concentration on the performance, wondering what he saw, what he noticed and appreciated that somehow escaped her. Either her education hadn’t fitted her to enjoy such a display of dancers on a stage or her temperament ran more toward Coachella than the ballet and opera. Regardless, he was soaking up culture in his refined brain, and she was staring at him like he was an ice cream sundae with extra whipped cream. And extra whipped cream just made her think of squirting whipped cream on him. Clearly, not the way a sophisticated woman would behave at the ballet, she thought.

Marj poured herself another glass of wine and sat back with her drink. Brandon smiled at her, then turned back to the performance. She admired the width of his shoulders as he leaned forward to watch the action onstage. She took in the inverted triangulation of slope from broad shoulders to narrow hips. She liked the way his dark hair grew to a point at the back of his neck or was cut that way. It had an old-fashioned man’s-man vibe to it that appealed.

When she shivered, Brandon looked over and took off his coat and draped it around her shoulder like a gentleman.

“Thanks,” she said. Now she could look at him in his shirtsleeves without that jacket in the way. She stole a lip-biting glance at his muscular back through the white fabric of his shirt.