Wife Is A 4-Letter Word Read Free Page A

consternation. His fair hair was cut in a trendy, precision style, and his round wire glasses were like everything else in his wardrobe: designer quality.
    The man was painfully clean-cut, his skin typically scrubbed within an inch of its life, his preppie clothes stiff enough to stand in a corner. She perused his slim, chiseled nose and squared-off chin, complete with an aristocratic cleft. He was handsome in an Osmond kind of way, she supposed, but everything about him screamed predictable.
    Alan Parish came from thick money, as her mother would say. She doubted if he’d ever experienced belly-hurting hunger, missed school because his shoes had finally fallen completely apart, or scraped together money to post bail for three family members in one week. The worlds they came from were so far apart, they were in separate dimensions.
    Then she bit back a smile. Right now, with his hair mussed, his glasses askew and a narrow streak of mud on his jaw, he looked more like one of her stray lovers—disorderly and disobedient. Only she knew better. Alan was an uptight computer geek—she’d bet the man had a flowchart on the headboard of his bed.
    â€œWhat’s so funny?” he asked, his expression hurt.
    â€œNothing,” she said as fast as her thick tongue would allow while waving for the waiter to bring them more drinks. Then they spent the next half hour extolling the virtues of being footloose and commitment-free while they drained the second pitcher.
    At last, Alan tossed a spent lime wedge onto the accumulated pile and looked at his watch, moving it up and back as if he was trying to focus. “Time to go,” he said, standing a little unsteadily.
    Pam stuck out her hand. “I think I’ll stick around and sober up for the drive home.”
    â€œWith your driving, who could tell?”
    She scowled. “Have a great time, Alan.”
    â€œYeah,” he said dryly. “I’m off on my honeymoon all by myself.” He bowed dramatically.
    â€œMaybe you’ll meet someone,” she said.
    Alan straightened, then frowned and pursed his lips.
    â€œWhat?” she asked, intrigued by the expression on his face.
    â€œGo with me,” he said.
    Pam nearly choked on her last swallow of margarita. “What?”
    â€œGo with me,” he repeated, giving her a lopsided smile.
    â€œYou’re drunk,” she accused.
    He hiccuped. “Am not.”
    â€œAlan, I’m not going on your honeymoon with you.”
    â€œWhy not?” he pressed. “My secretary booked a suite at a first-rate hotel, and it’s all paid for—room, meals, everything.” He pulled the plane tickets from inside his jacket and shook them for emphasis. “Come on, I could use the company and you could probably use a vacation.”
    A week away from Savannah was tempting, she mused.
    His smile was cajoling. “Long days on the beach, drinking margaritas, steak and lobster in the evening.” He wagged his eyebrows. “Skimpily dressed men.”
    At last he had her attention. “Yeah?”
    He nodded drunkenly. “Yeah, you might get lucky.”
    But she couldn’t fathom spending a week with Alan, and she’d never share a bed with the man, no matter how roomy. She shook her head. “I can’t.”
    â€œI’ll sleep on the pullout bed,” he assured her.
    She set down her drink. “But what will people think? What will Jo think?”
    â€œWhat do you mean?” he asked.
    Pam squirmed on the uncomfortable bench seat. “Well, you know—us being together for a week.”
    His shocked expression didn’t do much for her ego. “You mean that someone might think that we’re...that we’re... involved?” His howl of laughter made her feel like a fool.
    Of course no one would jump to that conclusion—a high-bred southern gentleman and a trashy white girl from the projects—it was ludicrous.
    â€œAnd