And I’m not entirely sure if she would’ve said yes to my wedding offer—and the million dollars that came with it—if it hadn’t been for her sister. Nonny is her biggest weakness, and I exploit it shamelessly. But I don’t fight fair. I fight to win.
Except…is this a win?
My wife and I are both miserable. I keep telling myself I’m not, but who the hell am I kidding? My focus is shot, I snap at people and I have to force myself to stay away from her until night falls—acting like a fucking vampire—when I finally allow myself to touch her, telling myself I deserve that much, since my lust for her body is the reason I decided to marry her. Nonny’s picked up on the tension, and she’s acting out in subtle ways, mostly against Belle. That isn’t right, but teenagers aren’t often concerned with right or wrong.
I finish the whiskey, start to reach for another bottle…then stop. I have to get my head screwed on right. We can’t continue like this. Even the resentment I’ve felt over the possibility of my wife growing indifferent to me is based on my fear that I might drive her away.
Tomorrow I’ll take the first step to fixing what is broken between us. I’ll ask Belle to explain the circumstance with Grayson from her point of view…and listen to her—calmly—as she talks.
I have to give us this chance or just let her go before she twists me inside out.
Chapter Ten
Annabelle
When I open my eyes, I see an unfamiliar room. I blink, utterly disoriented for a moment. My body aches like I’ve been in a wrestling match with an ape, I’m naked except for a super tiny thong and I don’t know whose bed I’m in.
Panic rushes over me, and suddenly I’m cold to my core. Memories of the last time I found myself awake, not knowing what happened the night before, pour through my mind; it’s suddenly hard to breathe through the tightness in my lungs. As tremors rack me, I squeeze my eyes shut. What happened? What am I doing here?
Then sanity intrudes, piece by piece. The panic recedes as quickly as it came, and I relax my grip on the sheets. I’m not a vulnerable fifteen-year-old who doesn’t know better anymore. I’m in San Francisco with Elliot. We attended Elizabeth’s charity dinner. I felt awful during the dinner, and the smell of all the rich sauces and fat only worsened the nausea. Fresh air seemed vital, and I went to the balcony on the second level. Then on my way back, I fell down the stairs…
No, not fell. Was pushed down. I didn’t imagine that pair of hands shoving into my back. My only regret is that I didn’t see who it was because I was too busy tumbling down the steps.
I hiss out a breath. It was probably Annabelle Underhill. She made it clear she hates me. On the other hand, why would she threaten me in the bathroom if she was going to push me down the stairs anyway? It would’ve made more sense for her to at least be neutrally pleasant in the bathroom, then go for the sneak attack.
I start to turn to check the time, and groan as my shoulders and upper back burst into blossoms of pain. Holy shit, I feel worse today than yesterday. Not unexpected, though. It was always worse the day after a tough game of hockey.
My eyes shut, I breathe shallowly, willing the pain to go away. I should ask for some ibuprofen. That would proba—
“You’re up.”
Elliot. My hands twist in the sheet and I pull it up, ignoring the dull throbbing in my arms, as though such a flimsy barrier would stop the sharp awareness of him from prickling over my skin. I feel too naked and too exposed. I recognize my extreme level of vulnerability is coming from the fact that Elliot has never been engaged in our relationship at a deep emotional level. I was the only one silly enough to think there could be more between us.
Elliot comes in and takes an armchair by the window, a hand around his phone. He’s impeccably dressed in a white shirt with the two top buttons undone, sleeves rolled up and a pair of light beige slacks that molds to his lean, muscular legs. His dark, glossy hair is almost dry. There is a small nick by his tight mouth, which surprises me; I can’t remember him ever giving himself a shaving cut.
An unexpectedly strong urge to run my finger over the wound courses through me, and I stiffen. The period of tenderness is over. I finally see that now, and can accept it intellectually. I just need to get my heart to acquiesce and figure out what Elliot’s and my next move in this farce is going to be. His eyes probe as he takes me in, and the unblinking focus is flustering.
“Yeah,” I croak, then clear my throat. “Just woke up.”
“Want a painkiller?” he asks, unscrewing a small bottle of water.
“The muscle relaxant?”
He nods.
I shake my head. “No. It’s going to make me drowsy.” I don’t want anything that can make me lose control of my faculties. “Do you have anything else?”
He offers me three options from a plastic bag with a pharmacy logo. I accept two ibuprofen pills.
“You’ve been busy.”
“Yeah. Breakfast?” he asks, taking the bottle of water back.
“No thanks. I’m not hungry. But some coffee would be great, if you don’t mind.”
“Why don’t you shower while I call for room service?”
I nod and wait until he turns away to use the in-house phone. Then I hobble as quickly as possible across the bedroom. It’s silly—it’s not like he’s never seen me naked before—but I feel extra vulnerable today.