The sight of this weirdo touching June —my wife—flips some switch in my brain that I didn't even know existed.
And that's the problem, isn't it? She's not really my wife. This whole thing is supposed to be fake. I got to keep racing and keep my sponsors happy, maintain the perfect family man image. She got... hell, I'm still not entirely sure what she got out of this deal besides a ring and a shared address.
But somewhere along the way, this stopped feeling like pretend.
I've been trying to ignore it for weeks. The way my pulse kicks up when she walks into a room. The way I find excuses to touch her—adjusting her necklace, putting my hand on the small of her back, that f*****g kiss that I can't stop thinking about even though it was the stupidest thing I've ever done.
I have Tessa. Tes
