Page 29 of Season's Schemings
“Well, we do have photos together,” I say, gesturing vaguely towards our wedding pictures featuring traffic cone and Elvis. “As for the other stuff…” I worry my teeth into my bottom lip, pondering. “My family will obviously know, and we can get more pictures over the holidays. Are you going to tell yours?”
He shrugs, looking more than a little uncertain all of a sudden. “I’m not sure. I hadn’t gotten that far…”
“Maybe we can start by telling your teammates and the other Cyclones staff.”
“Good idea,” Seb agrees. “Okay, what about this: we could say that we’ve been dating in secret for awhile and didn’t want to tell anyone because you were going for—and then got—a job at the Cyclones?”
“Ooh, yes! That’s good.” I play with the hem of my robe, thinking. “And I can get some mail sent to your address to cover that part…”
“Or you could move in with me.” Seb looks up suddenly. “I have a spare room that you could stay in. And I mean, it’d be super convenient for you as I live close to work.”
My eyes grow wide. “Oh, I couldn’t. I—”
“Didn’t you say last night that you’ve been sleeping on your brother’s couch ever since your breakup?”
I did say that, didn’t I? Stupid loose drunky lips.“Yes, but—”
“So. No wife of mine is going to sleep on some dirty old couch.”
“Who said it was dirty?” I demand, throwing up my hands. Then, I remember that I’m wearing a bulky robe that isn’t super snug around my upper torso region, and I immediately wrench my hands back in, grasping at the neckline and pulling it tight.
Seb watches this entire debacle with a little smirk playing on his lips. “That’s just how I was picturing it.”
His tone is dangerously close to flirty, and I give him a glare. “Okay boyo, I think we’re going to have to set some ground rules here. Rule number one: no using the word ‘dirty’ when describing anything to do with me.”
“Boyo?” He’s trying not to laugh. Failing, too.
“Yes,boyo. Rule number two: no conversations while we’re not both fully dressed.” I look down at my robe, then back up at Seb. “Obviously, that rule kicks in after this current conversation comes to an end and I get dressed.”
His mouth twitches. “Naturally.”
“Rule number three: I will come and live in your spare bedroom, as I believe this will be best for appearances’ sake. But, and I can’t stress this enough, there will benohanky panky of any kind.”
“But that’s my favorite kind,” he protests, now full-blown grinning.
“What’s your favorite kind?”
“All of the kinds. I like all variations of hanky panky, as you so sexily refer to it.”
“Well, dear husband of mine, get used to havingnovariations of any of it.”
“Hmm. This is the least fun honeymoon I’ve ever been on.” He pouts, but I can tell by the way his eyes glint and his cheek tics that he’s joking.
I also can’t help but notice for the millionth time how almost painfully attractive he is. Like, I never, ever believed I’d even be in the vicinity of a man this attractive, never mind married to one.
But that is, of course, an entirely unhelpful train of thought as this marriage of ours is in name only. Sans hanky panky.
AsIjust decreed it.
Dammit.
“So…” I venture. “This will mean you’ll have to reign in your girl-of-the-moment tendencies. You know that, right?”
“Huh?” He blinks at me, looking genuinely confused.
“Going through so many women, you don’t even recognize them…?”
Light dawns in his eyes, and he snorts. “Madelyn Louise Grainger Slater, I believe you have yet another misconception about me.”