"It’s why you lashed out at me... Because you were … afraid?"
"Terrified." He chuckles. "It’s why I proposed the fake marriage, in the first place. Thinking if I got ahead of the curve and reduced whatever was between us to something we both knew to be playacting, then—"
"You’d be safe?"
"I hoped." He wipes the tears from under my eyes. "To be fair, I already knew, going in, that I was going to be changed. But I hoped to control the extent of the damage." His lips twist. "I should have known there was no way I was coming out of this unharmed."
"Gee, thanks." I wrinkle my nose. "You make me sound like an accident waiting to happen."
"Or something momentous." His gaze intensifies. "A collision I’ll never recover from." His lips curve. "And I mean that in a good way."
I hold his gaze, and something knotted inside of me unclenches. Warmth suffuses my cheeks, and I’m the first to glance away. "Now what?" I rub my cheek against his chest—his still naked chest. The man seems to be happy to walk around half-dressed, not that I’m complaining, even though I do worry that he might catch a cold if he isn’t properly dressed.
"Now, why don’t we see about that dinner?"
33
Christian
She insisted that I put on my shirt, and initially, I refused. But then I sneezed, and she looked at me with a telling look, and I complied. I pulled on my shirt, then grabbed a bottle of wine from the collection at the bar before returning back to the breakfast bar in the kitchen. I poured a glass for each of us before I seating myself as she turned back to her cooking. I watched her for a few minutes, not feeling the need to say anything. She glanced at me over her shoulder and smiled.
And my heart stuttered. It confused me enough that I drained my glass of wine, then poured myself a new glass. Technically speaking, I should be the one cooking for her, but I admit, it’s one of the things I’m not good at. I know, shocker, me admitting that I’m not proficient at something? But hey, even I have my limitations. Not many, but cooking is one of them. Also, it seems to calm her to have something to do. So, when she’d insisted on cooking dinner, I had not protested.
Now, I watch as she bustles around the kitchen, putting together the makings of what already smells delicious. I rise to my feet and walk over to her, "What are you cooking?" I peer over her shoulder at the pans she has on the stove.
"Pasta a la Norma," she replies. "It’s made from dried pasta and frozen vegetables, but it’ll have to do."
"I can’t wait to eat it." I wrap my arm around her waist and pull her flush against me.
She shivers. "Don’t," she protests, "I’ll screw up the cooking."
"I’d rather screw you instead."
She chuckles. "Your word play is impressive."
"You are impressive."
She pauses, then turns to glance at me over her shoulder. "I am scared," she murmurs.
"Of what?"
"This truce between us is too good to last."
"We’ll see." I kiss the top of her head. "You have to admit, when we fight, it gets the blood flowing too."
"It is exciting," she admits, "but that worries me even more."
"Because you like how it feels when I get you all flustered?"
"I like just being with you," she bursts out, then wrinkles up her nose. "Okay, for the record, I didn’t mean to put that out there."
"For the record, I like being with you," I purse my lips, "mostly."
She scowls. "Gee, thanks."
"Just kidding." I smirk. "The only thing I like more than being with you is being inside you."
"And there he is," she raises her gaze skywards, "the arrogant, over-the-top, macho, chauvinistic—"