Page 144 of Reverie

I lift an eyebrow, waiting in her silence as she tries to find her words.

“My wife is here,” I grind out. Her mouth pops open in surprise.

“Oh? I thought that was—the last time it wasn’t true, so I didn’t know. I just figured that since this was a much longer flight, maybe you could spare some time away.”

I know I wear a look of disgust, and she gains some sense and pops back a foot, dropping her hand.

I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself. Trying to battle my tendencies to solve issues with violence.

After three breaths, I access enough calm to speak.

“Come here, Jami,” I say, using the voice that feels foreign now in the eighteen months that Winter has been in my life.

Jami balks, and I widen my stance.

I know that I’m giving her what she wants: my attention. She wants the reward of my time and the punishment I’ll mete out.

But I won’t.

She doesn’t realize that for the rest of my life, the only woman who will have me is at the back of the plane.

Upset. Hurt.

No one gets to hurt Winter ever again. Not even me.

“You want to play?” I ask, dropping my voice even lower. Jami bites her lip and looks up at me from beneath her eyelashes.

“I want whatever you want, Mr. Brigham,” Jami whispers.

I hum. “Right,” I say, my voice low. I turn without further acknowledging her.

I put my hand on the latch, prepared to wrench the bedroom door open, but I pause as sense returns to me.

If I fuck this situation up, if I handle it in the wrong way, that could likely be it for me and Winter. No matter that she now is my legal wife. No matter that she carries our child.

Breathe, Hunter.

I’m surprised that the door isn’t locked when I slide it open on its silent track.

The room is dark, but a shaft of light comes from the oversized en suite bathroom. Water runs and I can tell it’s from the sink. I count the seconds as I wait for Winter to emerge, choosing to lean against the now-closed door.

When she exits the bathroom, she stops short. She’s changed out of the fancy linen outfit—picked in case we ran into paparazzi—in favor of a flowy beach skirt that skims the top of her feet and a camisole that shows a sliver of her stomach. Her face is shiny, and it’s clear she washed it.

But the thing that arrests me is the fact that her eyes are swollen and red-rimmed.

“Talk to me, Winter,” I say in a low voice.

She remains silent, swaying slightly as if she were drunk.

“I’m so sorry she was so disrespectful. She’ll be off the plane as soon as we land, and you’ll never have to see her again.”

Winter crosses her arms, the stance protective rather than combative. The hum of the airplane engines fill the silence.

“Winter, what can I?—”

“Hunter, what do you want from me?” Her words are low and her tone holds devastation. I’m transported back to the first time we made love and those hours after.

My memory forces me to sit in the worst moments of my life: when I lost her.