Page 13 of Not You Again
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Andie’s in the bathroom and hasn’t made a single noise since she got in there.
She may not be happy to be legally married to me, of all people, but I’m still a fucking gentleman. Most of the time. I work the buttons on my shirt loose as I make my way back to the bathroom door. I knock gently on it with one knuckle.
When I don’t hear a reply, I say, “We need some footage of us getting ready for bed.”
A rustle of fabric is the only sign that she’s still alive in there, but she doesn’t come out.
“Please, Andie.”
No answer.
I sigh. She’ll come out of there when she wants to. She always did everything when she wanted to, how she wanted to, holding onto control of her situation until her knuckles were white.
I duck around the corner in the bedroom to tug off my shirt and hang it up, then my pants. A quick glance at the door says she’s not coming out right this second, so I slip off my socks and boxer briefs too. I’d like to shower before bed, but I’m not dumb enough to tell Andie that while she’s in there. So I find a clean pair of underwear and a pair of sweats and pull them on. I’ve just slid on a T-shirt when I hear the latch on the bathroom door click.
I stand, looking over my shoulder. As the door opens wider, I turn to face Andie. The camera on Steve’s shoulder gives a mechanical whir as he frames the shot.
She’s still in her wedding dress, full makeup, hair twisted and curled and pinned within an inch of its life. There’s something poetic in me being completely undone and her looking like some sort of fairy-tale princess.
Quietly, she says, “I, um, need some help. With the buttons.”
I don’t gloat, even though I probably should. It would be safer to keep that wall between us. Instead, I nod, gesturing with my left hand for her to turn around. My wedding ring feels at once completely foreign and just right. I clench my hand into a fist as I close the space between us, doing my damnedest to ignore Steve and Cassidy mere feet away.
There’s about a million tiny pearl buttons running down her spine from just below her shoulder blades all the way over the round curve of her ass. I’ve been with enough women to know she’s probably wearing shape-wear underneath, not sexy lingerie.
That knowledge doesn’t stop my mouth from going dry as I reach for the first button with shaking hands. At least she’s turned around so she can’t see me.
“Thank you,” she whispers. Her arms are crossed over the bodice of her dress, and her eyes are on an unknowable spot on the carpet in front of her.
Two buttons. Three. “Any time.”
Four, five, six. “You were kind to my mom, too.”
“She cares about you,” I murmur. Seven through ten. We never met each other’s parents the first time; our relationship was four months of heat punctuated by laughter. The thought of how we were still warms me through.
She takes a deep breath and shakes her head, dangly earrings brushing her bare neck. “I’m sorry your parents weren’t here.”
I freeze, button fifteen in my hands.
Before I can speak, she says softly, “I noticed the seats were empty. I just … don’t know much about your family.”
I clear my throat. My fingers resume my work on the buttons, and I give her the barest sliver of information. “My mom … couldn’t make it.”
“Oh.” The word is soft. Loaded. She probably thinks my mom doesn’t approve of me being on the show, marrying a complete stranger. The truth is far from it.
Button twenty slips free where Andie’s waist dips into the curve of her ass. I swallow. The back of her dress is open enough now she can probably handle it from here. My fingers move lower to button twenty-one.
It’s the closest to a real conversation I’ve had with her in ten fucking years. I’ll be damned if I just walk away now. She seems like she’s done talking, though. So there’s nothing left for me to do but to stare at the skin that’s making itself known on her back. She’s got freckles there too. The urge to trace them like constellations—like I used to—slams into me, and I let out a heavy sigh.
My breath skims down her back and she shivers, goose bumps rising on her exposed skin. Also making itself known are all the places the dress has been digging into her body.
There’s a spot just above her right hip that’s raw enough it looks like it’s bleeding. An unwieldy frustration slams into me so suddenly I flinch—why didn’t she say anything? I could have helped her with this earlier. Could have snuck away and loosened her dress or found a way to pad that spot or—
I close my eyes and take a shaking breath through my nose.
Andie looks over her shoulder, eyes wide and tired and apprehensive. “What?”
I slip the last button through its eyelet and run my finger down one of the red marks from her dress. “You should have told me you were hurting.”