I Slapped My Fiancé—Then Married His Billionaire Nemesis
Chapter 69 - 70 Trust Issues

Chapter 69: Chapter 70 Trust Issues

Ashton’s hand moved in slow, careful strokes against my back, and after a couple of minutes that felt like twenty, my spine finally stopped trying to eject itself.

Weird detail to notice, but I liked how soft his shirt was.

And how he smelled—clean, expensive, with a faint, woody edge that calmed me down without making a show of it.

I liked it.

And I was starting to like the hug, too.

It was just beginning to feel cosy until Ashton opened his mouth.

‘Still too stiff. If you’re this awkward with me when no one else is around, you’ll never fool the people at the party.’

Excuse me?

I thought I’d already relaxed enough.

If I were any more relaxed, I’d be in a bloody coma.

What was wrong with the hug? Not intimate enough?

I tightened my arms around him like I was trying to crack his ribs, then buried my face deeper into his chest.

And accidentally breathed right into his pec.

His shirt warmed up instantly.

Fantastic. Now my embarrassment had body heat.

He spoke again, low and close: ‘You’re standing too straight. Too stiff. And the way your arms are locked around me... it feels like you’re trying to arrest me, not hug me. Maybe we should try sitting down.’

My mouth twitched.

Pretty sure that was the first performance review I’d ever gotten on a hug.

And yeah, it didn’t exactly earn five stars.

I rolled up my sleeves, channelled my inner overachiever, and marched to the sofa.

Ashton was already seated.

I leaned in, flung my arms around his neck. ‘That good enough for you?’

He patted my arm. ‘Feels like there’s still room for the Michelin Man between us.’

Right. Because apparently bending like a folding chair—arms looped around his neck, torso angled halfway to Narnia—wasn’t the picture of intimacy he had in mind.

I recoiled and leaned back in again, this time trying to press my chest against him.

Sort of.

Unfortunately, my legs wanted no part of the effort.

So I stood there like a decapitated Barbie, upper body engaged, lower body on strike.

And my thighs were beginning to scream bloody murder.

I peeled off him. ‘Maybe we call it a night?’

‘No. We don’t have a lot of time. And this isn’t going to fool anyone.’

I stared at him. ‘It’s your grandfather’s eightieth. It’s not like we’ll be expected to make out in front of the cake.’

‘No, but we’re also not supposed to look like the honeymoon’s long over and we’re already lawyering up for the divorce.’

‘That’s what my hug looked like?’

Ashton nodded. ‘We could get Geoffrey or the staff in here to give feedback, if you want.’

‘No!’ Absolutely not.

But the man had a point.

He’d been nothing but patient with me—hadn’t asked for anything but this: a simple, convincing appearance at his grandfather’s party.

And I kind of needed him to return the favour with my parents.

So, yeah. The fake intimacy thing had to look real.

‘Screw it,’ I muttered, then hiked a leg over and straddled him. ‘How’s this?’

His mouth curled against my temple, just enough for me to feel it.

He wrapped an arm around my waist and tugged me closer. ‘That’ll do.’

I breathed out.

If that didn’t satisfy him, I was officially out of ideas.

‘Sometimes intimacy isn’t about physical space or contact,’ he murmured. ‘It’s about trust. You’ve got to trust me completely.’

‘Mm.’ I gave him the world’s most non-committal grunt.

He was right, of course.

But knowing something’s right and doing it are two very different things.

It reminded me of this game we used to play at summer camp, some team-building trust exercise.

The coach made us line up in pairs.

First row would fall backwards without looking, and the row behind was supposed to catch them.

Simple.

Terrifying.

I couldn’t do it.

Not even after ages of mental prep.

The girl behind me was one of my best friends, and still, I froze.

What if she blinked and missed?

What if she secretly hated me and this was the perfect chance to let me crash to the ground?

What if she wanted to prank me and pretended to let me fall before catching me last minute?

The more I thought, the more my body locked up.

And this, sitting here with Ashton, somehow, it brought that whole memory screaming back.

Except now, I wasn’t even facing away.

I was straddling him.

He couldn’t let me fall.

But some irrational part of me whispered: what if he suddenly stood up?

What if I hit the floor? Cracked my head on the coffee table?

I squeezed my eyes shut and told my brain to shut the hell up.

I knew I had trust issues.

I knew Ashton wasn’t wrong.

Still didn’t mean I could magically flip a switch.

Five minutes passed.

Or five years.

I mumbled into his neck, ‘Can I get up now?’

‘Not yet.’

So we stayed there.

He stroked my back gently; he could tell I was still wired tight.

And the longer I stayed, the stiffer I got, until my legs felt like tree trunks and a crick started forming in my neck.

Finally, he said, ‘That’s enough for today. We’ll pick it up tomorrow.’

‘Great!’ I launched off him like a spring. ‘I’m going upstairs. Night.’