Page 14 of Not You Again
Her eyes grow cold, shuttered. I somehow said exactly the wrong thing, undoing any progress we just made. Holding her bodice up with one arm and fisting her skirt in the other, she huffs, “I can take it from here.”
She used to go soft for me, warm and pliant in my arms, trusting me to keep her safe. Now all I get is her gleaming armor, reflecting all my mistakes back at me.
Steve and Cassidy stick around while we brush our teeth and wash our faces. Andie climbs into the big bed with me just long enough to hear the latch close behind them when they finally leave.
Andie throws off the comforter, mumbling, “I’ll sleep on the couch.”
I don’t argue with her. Not because I won’t gladly take the couch, but rather because I know she’s too far gone to change her mind now anyway.
Only when she turns out the light in the living room do I turn out my light too.
I should have kept my mouth shut about the marks on her back. She’d never liked to hear she was human. In her mind, she’s some sort of warrior who can handle anything. In a way, I suppose she is. She hadn’t run screaming from me at the altar today, even when I gave her the option. Rubbing my hand over my mouth, I can’t fight a smile—her stubborn pride might be exactly what I need.
CHAPTER SEVENANDIE
The alarm on my phone is a scream out of hell, slicing into the nightmare that I married Kit fucking Watson in front of friends and family. When I fall off the couch, smacking the coffee table in a desperate attempt to turn the damn thing off, I know it’s all real.
I mutter a curse as I untangle my legs from the blanket I found in the closet last night. My phone isn’t where I left it. Instead, it’s screeching from the desk across the room. Just as I push off the floor, Kit wanders out of the bedroom.
My brain screeches to a halt. He’s in a towel, fresh out of the shower. My mouth goes dry as he reaches for my phone to turn the alarm off.
When did he turn into such a … specimen? In college he’d been tall and thin. Gangly. The man in front of me clearly spends some time at the gym. He isn’t perfectly cut like some kind of unrealistic fitness model either. His muscles swell under his skin in a perfect display of strength and nonchalance. Like he actually cares about being fit instead of how he looks.
Well.
I swallow the lump in my throat.
My eyes fall to his chest. That’s new—the smattering of hair over his pecs, the line marching down his toned stomach until it disappears below the too-tiny hotel towel. With effort, I avoid gaping at the glimpse of toned thigh making itself known where the towel edges don’t quite meet up.
By the time my gaze makes it back to his, I realize too late he’s been perusing my body too. I feel naked despite my tank top and satin shorts. I haven’t been to the gym in ages, and I’ve been surviving off coffee and takeout. I know I don’t look like I did when I was younger.
I clear my throat as I remember I don’t give a shit what he thinks of my body, because we are one hundred percent not going to go there. Ever. “Did you move my phone?”
He shrugs, running his left hand through his still-damp hair. He’s still wearing his wedding ring. Somehow, I thought he’d have chucked it out the window by now. “I was up early, and it wasn’t plugged in when I left. Figured you’d want a full charge.”
“When you left?” I narrow my eyes. I didn’t hear him come through here at all. I cross my arms over my chest when I realize that means he saw me sleeping. Something about it feels too damn intimate when I can’t say the same about him.
He doesn’t answer right away, instead plucking a to-go cup from the coffee shop downstairs off the mini-fridge and offering it to me. “I hope you still take it with cream, no sugar.”
I can’t help but curl the warm cup against my chest, trying to shield my sucker of a heart that wants to swoon. He remembers how I take my coffee.
And he let you sleep on the couch.
“Where’d you go this morning?” I take a swig of the liquid gold inside the cup. My hair must look like a rat’s nest after tossing and turning all night; I tuck a stray strand behind my ear.
He turns back to the bedroom and waves off my question. “Couldn’t sleep. Went for a run.”
I follow him into the bedroom, my brow furrowed. It’s been a decade, so I’m a little rusty when it comes to his intonation, but that didn’t sound like the whole truth. Before I have the chance to push him for more—we’re married now, after all, I deserve the truth—I stop in my tracks, staring at the door to the closet.
“You hung up my dress,” I say so softly I doubt he hears it.
But he does hear it. He gives me a sheepish smile as he lifts a hand to grip the back of his neck. “It’s … a nice dress. I saw it on the floor this morning and …”
He trails off, looking at the garment in question, hanger hooked over the closet door. I slid out of it before making myself comfortable on the couch and left it in a heap on the carpet. It doesn’t matter. It’s just a dress, right? My world is made of tulle and lace and chiffon. One dress doesn’t mean anything.
Especially not when I picked it out of a preselected lineup of dresses, presented to me in a slide show. Just like my ring and the bouquet. This entire marriage is one giant business transaction, for fuck’s sake.
And yet here I am, sliding the hem of the chiffon skirt through my fingers. There’s a grass stain from when we took our wedding photos on the lawn, and the bright green smudge is an imperfection that tells a whole story.