It was covered in shamrocks.
“You are an evil woman,” Bronte laughed helplessly, shaking her head. “Did you come here to torture me?”
“Did you think I would miss this? It’s my first undercover operation since I had the boys.”
Bronte lowered her voice, as if sharing a secret. “You bake cookies.”
“Hah. Remind me to tell you how Stephen and I finally got together sometime.” Tasha pointed at a nearby table with her elbow before handing Bronte one of the to-go cups. “We should sit out here for privacy. And because the second I asked for a latte sans shamrock, the poor child taking the order almost passed out.”
Bronte eyed the door with disbelief. “Should I go in and apologize again?”
Tasha grinned and sat down. “Don’t worry about her, let’s talk about you. You’re glowing. The word incandescent springs to mind. What has William done to you and how many times? Tell me everything, princess.”
If she was going to tell her anything, which she wasn’t, where could she possibly begin?
Had it only been one day? So much had changed. She’d hardly recognized herself when she looked in the mirror this morning. She was glowing.
She was happy.
Sex was a small, three-letter word that didn’t begin to cover what William Finn had done to her body. He’d done more than claim it, he’d released a floodgate of need inside her that showed no signs of letting up.
The way he saw her. Watched her. She wasn’t the plain Wayne to William. Dependable, obedient, boring Bronte.
She was irresistible. Exciting. Everything she said was worth listening to. Everything she did worthy of notice. She wasn’t used to that kind of focus. Had anyone ever seen her the way he seemed to? Had anything ever felt this right?
“Earth to Bronte.”
“Right. Sorry.” She sipped her coffee, gathering her thoughts. “We went out last night. To Pat’s. It was good. They were nice.”
“It was good. They were nice,” Tasha repeated, looking at her like she was the queen of every understatement ever created. “It was good? Taking your heels off after a party is good, Bronte. Finding a quarter in your couch is good.”
She shook her head. “Austen told me you were a vault, but I didn’t believe her. What if we compare notes? I’ll tell you all about my Finn if you tell me about yours. Stephen has this one spot behind his left—”
“Stop,” Bronte laughed, holding up her hand. “I do not need to know about my favorite senator’s sex life.”
“Come on,” she wheedled. “What I can offer is shocking enough that anything you tell me about William will sound G-rated.”
Bronte wasn’t so sure about that, she thought, remembering his aggression, his endless stamina. Lord, had Bubbles been right about his stamina. And the way he plugged in to all her deepest fantasies and secret desires…
It was on the tip of her tongue to tell Tasha how she was feeling, but how insane would it be to admit out loud that she’d fallen in love with her husband?
“That’s a tempting offer,” she said, smiling into her cup. “But I’m going to have to pass.”
“Good call,” a man’s voice said behind her.
Bronte looked up in relief. “Mr. Tanaka.”
The stunning man with skin like caramel and black hair that hung in a long, shining braid down his back sighed patiently as he sat down. “I believe I’ve told you to call me Ken several times now, Bronte.”
Her cheeks warmed. There was something about him that, despite his kindness, made her feel oddly formal.
Tasha licked a dollop of whipped cream off her finger with a wink. “I know that look. Don’t sweat it, Bronte. It’s the rope master vibe. Some people are more sensitive to it than others. Brady definitely is. I wonder if we should get him to give a free lesson to your young buck of a husband. But maybe William already knows what to do. I have no idea, since you won’t tell me.”
Ken sent Tasha a quelling look. “I didn’t leave my fiancé’s bed to gossip with the girls. And let’s not make Bronte uncomfortable. Not everyone wants to hear about other people’s personal proclivities.”
Bronte glanced around, surprised Brady Finn wasn’t holding up a nearby wall. She’d never seen Ken without the giant ginger at his side. She wondered where he was.
“It’s fine,” she said, though she was now imagining him using rope on his big brute of a boyfriend. “But you’re right, we should focus on solving my thug problem.”
Ken pushed his coffee to the side, tapping rapidly on his phone. “It’s solved. Well, for the most part.”
“It is?” Bronte couldn’t keep the skepticism from her voice. “You already know who it is? How?”
“I do this for a living,” he replied without looking up from his phone. “I know everything about him. What he makes, where he lives. He went to the corner store this morning for beer and donuts. When he isn’t threatening people for his boss, his daily routine is about as exciting as drying paint.”