He’d havehatedto be stuck on his feet in the middle of a pulsing crowd for three hours. It would have embarrassed him if she’d bought separate seats just out of consideration for him, like he was the killjoy who didn’t like to have fun, but she’d done it because she didn’t want to be down there, either. She loved music, loved the band, and she had stood in their front-row seats in the bleachers, swaying and singing along with the most beautiful, content smile on her face.
It had been perfect for both of them, and he’d realized if he could choose just one person to experience these moments with—a concert, a school dance, or even just hanging out on a Friday night—it was her.
His affection for her had only deepened with time. And today, he’d married her.
What have I done?
He lay in bed staring at the dark ceiling, wishing back everything he’d said to her over the last week and a half.
He wanted to help her, sure. He’d cut off his right arm if he thought it might make her happy. Not the left, though. He glanced down to his left forearm and the outline of the dark tattoo there.
Most days he would have said her happiness came before any hesitations he might have. But that was before he saw her KitchenAid mixer on the counter next to the refrigerator. Before her dresses and silky shirts hung in his closet beside his starched oxfords. Before he glimpsed her in a tank top and shorts as she padded down the hall to the guest room.
They’d snuck into her parent’s hot tub all the time as kids. He’d seen her in a swimsuit a million times, for fuck’s sake. She was more than covered up in what she was wearing, but he’d nearly tripped over his feet when he caught sight of her tan legs as she walked past his doorway, her forever-long midnight hair trailing down her back like a waterfall.
This idea was stupid. It was torture.
He’d realized it during the wedding, the second his lips met hers. It should have been a quick peck. She wasn’t in love with him, this wasn’t real, and Claire and a ninety-year-old judge had been watching them. But he hadn’t been able to stop himself from pressing just a little closer, just for one second more. Her palm had gently touched his abdomen, and it had taken everything in him not to haul her up against him, wrap her legs around his waist, and take her to the nearest room where they could be alone.
The things he would do to her...
He’d known living with her would be difficult. But now that he knew the softness of her lips, the feel of her breath against his skin?
He wouldn’t survive it.
A low groan escaped his throat and he rubbed a hand down his face just as his phone lit up on his bedside table.
Mia:You up?
Noah:Are you texting me from the next room?
Mia:Yeah. Is this weird?
Yes. It shouldn’t have been, though. How many nights had they spent texting for hours from their next-door bedrooms mere yards away, because it was too cold to meet in the tree house?
Noah:Nope. Feels like high school.
Noah:You okay?
She didn’t reply for several minutes. What was going through her mind? When she’d asked him the other day if he’d rather fly or read minds, he’d said fly, and meant it. Mia was open with her thoughts, and honest to a fault. He didn’t think she hid anything deep inside.
Not like he did.
Plus, he figured it might just bring him down to find out she didn’t think about him as much as he did her.
But right now? He sort of wanted to change his answer. Today had been weird, and they hadn’t spoken much, and he needed to know what she was thinking. He hoped like hell she didn’t regret this.
He heard a crash in the next room and was on his feet in a flash, ice-cold fear shooting through him. Did she fall? Was she sick? She’d looked kind of pale when they’d finished unpacking—had she pushed too hard?
He tore into her dark room, eyes searching. He found her hunched form on the floor next to the desk.
Noah lurched forward and knelt beside her. “Mia? What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
She swept the mane of dark hair back from her face, sending the sweetest scent of vanilla in his direction.
“I’m fine,” she grunted. “I thought it was stupid to be texting you and got out of bed to come talk to you. I’m not familiar with the room yet and walked right into the chair.”
Relief whooshed out of him on an exhale. “You scared the shit out of me.”