Read The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins novel by Artemis Z.Y. Updated 2025 -26 - The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins Chapter 466

“I have a wife,” I mimic his tone, straightening my spine the way he did, squaring my shoulders. “We’re working things out.’ Very convincing.”

His mouth twitches. Just the corner. That almost-smile that’s more dangerous than a real one. “It would have been convincing if you hadn’t blown it.”

The laugh bubbles up again. I can’t help it. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You enjoyed that too much.”

“I enjoyed it exactly the right amount.” I’m grinning up at him now

The fluorescent lights above us flicker once. The kind of old restaurant lighting that makes everyone look slightly jaundiced, except somehow Kyle still looks-

He’s looking down at me now. His eyes moving over my face in a way that makes me aware of every feature. My nose. My cheekbones. My mouth. His gaze lingers there for a half-second too long before traveling back up to meet my eyes.

The restaurant noise hasn’t stopped-I can still hear the kitchen staff shouting orders in the back, the hiss of the fryer, someone’s kid crying two tables over-but it all feels muffled somehow. Distant. Like we’re standing inside a bubble.

“How long were you standing there?” he asks. His voice has changed. Gone quieter. More careful.

“Long enough.”

“Watching.”

“Observing.”

“Instead of helping.”

The corner of my mouth pulls up. “You didn’t need help. You were handling it.”

His hand comes up. Slow enough that I could step back if I wanted to. But I don’t move. Just watch his fingers approach my face in that strange stretched-out way time moves sometimes.

His fingertips touch my chin. Light. Barely pressure at all. But enough that I feel the warmth of his skin against mine. Enough that I feel the small callus on his index finger, catch slightly on my skin as he tilts my face up.

The angle changes. My neck extends. My throat exposed. Some prey animal instinct in the back of my brain registers this as vulnerable. Dangerous.

I don’t move away.

“You’re mean,” he says quietly. His voice has dropped an octave. That particular register that makes my stomach do something it shouldn’t.

“I’m honest.”

“Same thing sometimes.”

His breath smells like the coffee he had at lunch. That dark roast Tony’s serves that’s always slightly too bitter. I can smell it now. Warm. Close.

We’re standing too close. I realize it suddenly. Not gradually. Just all at once like a light switching on. His hand on my chin. My face tilted up. Our bodies angled toward each other.

The space between us feels charged. Electric. Like the air before a thunderstorm when all the ions are rearranging themselves and you can feel it in your teeth.

I step back.

The movement breaks whatever spell was building. His hand falls away from my face. The cool air rushes in to fill the gap where his body heat had been.

I need to say something. Fill the silence with something light. Something that will reset the moment back to safe territory.

“Well,” I say, and my voice comes out breathy. I clear my throat. Try again. “At least you know now, Mr. Branson-you’re still attractive. You’ve still got it. The Kyle Branson charm.”

I’m gesturing vaguely as I speak. That thing I do when I’m nervous. My hands moving in the air like they’re conducting an invisible orchestra.

“”‘Single dad. That’s so attractive.”” I pitch my voice higher.

I’m reaching out as I say it. Poking his chest once. Playful. Friendly. Creating the dynamic I want-teasing, light, nothing serious-

His hand shoots out. Fast. Catches my wrist before I can pull back.

His fingers wrap around completely. His thumb and middle finger overlapping slightly. My wrist is small enough that his whole hage hand

can encircle it. I’ve always known this theoretically. But feeling it is different.

“I’m glad I could provide entertainment,” he says. His voice is dry. Ironic. But his

hand on my wrist is anything but casual.

“You’re welcome.”

He doesn’t let go.

I can feel each of his fingers individually. The pressure of them against my skin. His palm is warm. His thumb moves. Small circles on the inside of my wrist where the skin is thinnest.

I can feel my pulse under his touch. The rhythm of it. Too fast. Much too fast for someone who’s just standing still having a normal conversation.

Can he feel it too? He must be able to feel it. His thumb is right there, pressing lightly against the spot where my heartbeat is telegraphing itself through my skin like morse code.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

Telling him things I don’t want him to know.

The restaurant sounds filter back in. A burst of laughter from a table near the window: The crash of dishes in the kitchen. The ancient jukebox in the comer playing something from, the eighties synthesizers and drum machines and a vocalist hitting notes that should be impossible.

But all of it feels like background noise. Like a movie soundtrack playing behind the

real scene.

His mouth does something complicated. The corners pulling in different directions. Almost a smile. Almost not. That expression he gets when he’s thinking something he’s not saying out loud.

“Mia.”

His voice cuts through everything.

I look up. Force myself to meet his eyes.

His eyes have changed. The gray has gone darker. Slate instead of smoke. The pupils slightly dilated even though we’re standing under harsh fluorescent lights that should be making them contract.

I know what dilated pupils mean. I learned it in some psychology class a lifetime ago. Attraction. Interest. Arousal.

Don’t think about that.

“You should know,” he says. Each word deliberate. Careful. Like he’s choosing them

from a limited supply and has to make each one count. “You should know this already.”

My throat is dry. I swallow. The movement feels exaggerated. Obvious.

“Know what?”

He looks at me for a long moment. His thumb still moving against my wrist, Those slow, hypnotic circles that are making it very hard to think about anything else. To remember why I stepped back. Why I created distance. Why this is a bad idea.

My pulse hammers against his touch.

Thump-thump-thump-thump.

Faster now. More urgent. Betraying me with every beat.

“In high school,” he says finally. The words come out lower than his normal speaking

voice. Almost rough. “Didn’t you like me the same way?”

Like someone just pressed pause on reality and everything stopped moving.

My smile freezes.

The muscles in my face don’t know what to do.

“What?”

“In high school,” he repeats.

Slower this time. Each syllable separated. Distinct. His eyes never leaving mine. Not

even to blink. Just holding my gaze.

“You liked me. The same way that girl just—”

He stops.

“Didn’t you?”