The CEO's 30-Day Contract Wife

Midnight Pancakes

Recap in two lines. Last night grandmother forced Olivia and Ethan to share one bed with a pillow wall and at two in morning police came with Richard claiming Olivia stole Sophia's ring.

Now at two thirty after father left, penthouse is silent, both awake, hungry and furious, and Olivia decides to make pancakes to calm heart.

Olivia had never made pancakes at two in morning in a penthouse that costs more than her whole street in Queens.

She stood in kitchen wearing Ethan's white shirt that Rosa lent because her black dress was wrinkled, barefoot, hair messy, hands shaking after police left, after Richard shouted that she is thief, after Eleanor defended her.

Ethan stood at island opposite her, awake, in sweatpants and no shirt, hair messy, eyes dark and tired and full of guilt, watching her open fridge like he wanted to say sorry but did not know how.

You should sleep, he said quietly, voice rough.

I cannot sleep, she said, not looking at him, opening bag of flour that Rosa keeps. When I cannot sleep in Queens I make pancakes, flour helps, makes hands busy, makes heart less loud.

I am sorry, he said, stepping closer, hands on island. My father should never have brought police, never, that ring was in hidden box for ten years, you did not steal.

Your father thinks I am gold digger who steals dead girl's ring, Olivia said, scooping flour, voice shaking but fierce. Your father thinks I took Sophia's ring to sell for eighty seven thousand dollars, he does not know I would never sell a dead sister's ring, even if my mother needed surgery, I would never.

I know, Ethan said, voice low. I know you would never, Olivia, you kept ring hidden under pillow like treasure, you protected it, you protected my sister's memory more than I ever did, I sealed her in wall and you held her photo like she mattered.

Silence in kitchen, only fridge humming and city lights outside.

Olivia poured flour into bowl, too much, flour puff spilled onto counter, onto hands, onto shirt.

Oops, she whispered, trying to laugh.

Ethan smiled small, first smile since police left.

You have flour on your nose, he said quietly, stepping closer, eyes on her face.

Where, she asked, wiping nose with floury hand, making it worse, more flour now on cheek and chin.

There, he said, laughing soft, now you have flour everywhere, you look like ghost from Queens who loves pancakes.

I am not ghost, I am chef, she said, trying to be funny, scooping more flour, hands white.

You are terrible chef, he said, stepping even closer, close enough to smell flour and her perfume and his own shirt on her body, close enough to see flour on her lips, tiny white dust on pink.

Olivia looked up at him, barefoot, in his shirt, flour on face, eyes bright and tired and still angry.

Do not stare at my flour, she whispered, voice small, suddenly aware how close he was, how his chest was bare, how his eyes were on her mouth.

I am not staring at flour, he whispered back, voice rough and low, jealousy and want mixing in his eyes even at two in morning. I am staring at my wife who is wearing my shirt at two in morning in my kitchen making pancakes because my father made her cry and I could not stop him, and I am thinking that if any man ever saw you like this, barefoot and floury and fierce, I would lock kitchen door so only I can see.

You are jealous of flour now, she asked, trying to laugh, heart pounding.

I am jealous of shirt, he said, eyes dark. I am jealous of shirt that gets to touch your skin when I cannot, I am jealous of flour that gets to touch your lips when I cannot, I am jealous of this kitchen that gets to hold you at two in morning when I have to keep pillow wall between us.

Olivia stared up at him, flour on lips, flour on hands, his shirt big on her small body, his bare chest close, his voice broken and possessive and honest, and her anger melted.

You protected me tonight, she whispered, soft now, not fierce. When police came you stood in front of me and said over my dead body, you will not arrest my wife, you said my wife, not contract wife, my wife, and your voice shook but you said it loud, and I have never had anyone stand in front of police for me before.

I would stand in front of whole army for you, Olivia, he said quietly, stepping closer, one hand reaching up, hesitating, then gently brushing flour from her cheek with thumb, touch light and warm, lingering. You are my wife, even if paper says thirty days, even if we have pillow wall, you are my wife, and no one will take you from this house.

His thumb brushed her cheek, left flour streak, then moved to her chin, tilting face up, eyes on flour dusted lips.

You have flour on your lips, he whispered, voice shaking.

Then wipe it, she whispered back, brave because two in morning makes people brave, eyes on his mouth, standing on tiptoes, bare feet cold, hands floury and clutching his sweatpants.

Ethan stared at her lips, inches away, white flour on pink, his thumb hovering, his whole body tense with effort not to kiss her, rule number two screaming in his head.

Olivia, he warned, voice rough, low, do not tempt me, you are in my shirt, in my kitchen, at two in morning, with flour on your lips, you have no idea what you do to me.

Then show me, she whispered, daring him, floury hands now on his bare chest, light touch, making him shudder.

He dropped restraint. His hands came up, one to waist, pulling her hard against his bare chest, flour transferring from shirt to skin, other hand in hair, tilting face, and he kissed her, slow and hungry and sweet, tasting flour and sugar and champagne, his mouth on hers, flour on both lips, messy and perfect and real, bare feet lifting, floury hands in his hair, soft sound against mouth.

Batter spilled behind them, bowl tipping, flour cloud puffing into air, covering both white like snow, and they laughed against each other's lips, flour everywhere, kitchen a mess, pancakes forgotten.

You taste like flour and Queens, he whispered against lips, forehead touching hers, breath fast, hands tight on waist, shirt now white with flour.

You taste like Manhattan and jealousy, she whispered back, giggling, eyes bright, flour on eyelashes, in his arms, in his shirt, in kitchen at two thirty.

He kissed her again, deeper, against island, flour on hands, flour on faces, flour on bare chest where hands left prints, possessive and sweet and breaking rule number two into flour dust.

Then kitchen intercom buzzed loud at two thirty, urgent, and Rosa's voice came through.

Mister Ethan, Madam Eleanor is awake, she saw you kissing in kitchen on camera, she is clapping and crying and she says she is calling New York Post to say love is real, but also Vanessa is downstairs in lobby with a man who says he is Olivia's mother doctor and he says her mother is in emergency surgery right now and needs ten thousand dollars tonight or she will not make it, and he has papers.

Olivia froze in Ethan's arms, flour on face, lips swollen from kiss, barefoot in his shirt, and whispered one question that made Ethan's blood freeze.

Ethan, how does Vanessa know my mother is in surgery tonight when even I did not know truly.