“Where’s your coffee?” She pins her arms across her chest as I come to a stop in front of her.
“No one drinks pumpkin lattes, babe.”
“I’m not your babe.”
But I already know that. She’s my little love—the woman I’d like to throttle, though maybe in an erotic kind of way. Part punishment, part frustration, part Jesus Christ, woman, just let me hold you.
“You want to have this conversation out here?” I glance tellingly at the industrial-sized bin. Behind her is a steel roller door, half lifted. I give an unhappy huff; seems like she’s trying to tell me something.
“Trash cans are my preferred audience if we have to have this conversation at all.”
“We do.” Hell, yes, we do. Because this morning’s chat with the old girls taught me a couple of things. The first is that Kennedy can’t be trusted, which is probably unfair, so I’ll amend it to say she’s naturally a little guarded around me. And also, if she ever fancies a change of career, she could run interference for the CIA. “Right, so. I guess I’ll start.” Mirroring her stance, I fold my arms across my chest and throw in a little flex of the guns to draw her attention. Attention in the form of a narrowed gaze, it seems.
“Please do. I have a business to run—”
“A business. Exactly. You have a business, a coffee shop you own. A holiday home you own, and a house you live in just beyond the hedge.” But that’s not even what pisses me off the most.
“So?” Still with the tone, though her body language is a little squirmier.
“Were you afraid to tell me the truth?”
“I don’t know you,” she says, her shoulder coming off the wall, her body language suddenly defensive. “I am not going to tell you my business.”
“I’m not interested in your business. I’m interested in the truth, for fuck’s sake! You couldn’t even tell me you were nearby. You just left me with a heart full of questions and a couple of fucking photographs!”
“I say again, I don’t know you.”
“You didn’t know me when you married me, either.” Her eyes flare, and her fists ball, but I’m not done. “You’ve told two people about me, total. And only in the past twelve hours. Did I get that right?”
Her shrug is noncommittal, though I know this to be the truth.
“You didn’t tell your grandmother or your sister or any of your friends. You just turned up one day, part way through term, pregnant. You didn’t offer up anything else.”
“I see the Kowalskis were very helpful,” she replies bitterly.
“Did you look for me?” Her only answer is a glare. “Does that mean the kid thinks he doesn’t have a dad?”
“Wilder,” she growls, her chin coming up like a boxer. “His name is Wilder.”
“I know what his name is, though I’m not sure I would know if I hadn’t pushed. Does he know about me? Does he think his dad doesn’t want him? I’m not sure which is worse. No, actually, I do know because what pisses me off the most is that you had to do this alone, and I don’t know how that happened!” The words echo in the alleyway, reverberating from the brick walls.
So much for keeping my cool.
“I don’t know what you want from me, Roman.”
I drag in a deep breath. “Am I speaking Swahili? I want you to tell me the truth. Any truth. You fucking choose.”
“I didn’t tell you we were close by because I don’t know you.”
“I’m your husband.” I step into her, seeing red. Red for frustration. Red for need as I find myself transfixed by that tiny freckle in the hollow of her top lip. For the second time in my life, that freckle provides my brain an excuse to opt out of reality as I lunge for her, pulling her closer as I crush my mouth to hers. I know it won’t last, and somewhere in the deep recesses of my mind, I know it’s only a matter of time before she knees me in the balls. But the freckle deserved it, flaunting itself. Demanding my attention. Demanding to be licked and kissed.
But, wonder of wonders, I don’t find myself rolling around on the ground, and my lips still seem to be attached to my face. Rather than red and bloody and spat out onto the asphalt. I’m losing my mind because it feels as though her lips are responding, the sheer heat of her sighs melting all grey matter to mush. But no, she is kissing me back, more than returning the motions.
Fuck, yeah.
I cradle her head in my hands, holding her immobile as I devour her. Sweet Jesus, this feels right, like no time has passed. Like I’ve spent the last eight years kissing her.
“We shouldn’t,” she whispers even as she tilts her head to receive the kisses I work down her neck. Hard, desperate kisses without delicacy or finesse. When she angles her pelvis, instinctively brushing against me, I groan into her neck.