Eighteen
Thankfully, no photos from the museum surfaced. Penelope made a call to the photographer and paid her generously to bury the photos of Emmett hitting Blake in the nose. The story was officially dead. The Dallas Duchess had posted about “whisperings” that Blake had two black eyes, but she’d been “unable to reach him for comment.”
Over the span of what amounted to only a couple of days, Stefanie had made her way from the top of the news feed online to somewhere in the middle. She’d never been so happy to not be “trending.”
She set her phone on the counter as Emmett stepped into the kitchen, freshly showered and dressed for work, eyeing her with a primal gaze that reminded her of everything she’d done to him last night—and everything he’d done to her this morning.
Sharing his bed each and every night was much better than she’d anticipated. And she barely missed her apartment—well, she missed it a little. Mostly the cheery baubles sitting around that made her apartment feel like a home.
There were no baubles in Emmett’s town house. It was stocked with necessities. Utilitarian and simple.
“You need a painting or two.”
“Why?” His frown was outlined by the light from the open fridge door.
“What do you like?” she asked rather than answered.
“I like not to dust superfluous surfaces.”
So much for that idea.
Bottle of half-and-half in hand, he moved to the cabinet for a mug.
“We’re off the top-ten list of people to talk about in Dallas,” she said. “Blake has retreated into a hole in the ground. For now.”
“Good. I’ll check in with the staff at the mayor’s office and make sure the heat’s off Chase.” Emmett lifted the coffeepot and filled a mug. “In hindsight, he’s the one who should’ve gotten married to salvage his campaign and take the heat off you.”
The comment settled into the air like a foul stench.
“Having regrets?” she asked.
“That’s the wrong question.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“No. I’m not having regrets. Regret is as useless as worry.” He crossed the kitchen and put a kiss on her forehead. “So stop doing it.”
Who knew gruff and sweet could coexist in one big, burly package? He continued to surprise her.
“The gala is tomorrow.”
“I know.”
“I’m going to have to stop by my apartment to dig through my closet. I’ve been too preoccupied to shop properly for a dress and now it’s too late.”
“The tragedy of off-the-rack,” he said with a healthy dose of sarcasm.
“It’s your fault!” she accused with a grin. “You keep me in bed for longer than I’ve ever stayed there before.”
He set aside his steaming coffee mug to cup her jaw. “That’s because there are far more fun things to do with you in my bed than out of it.”
See? Sweet.
She savored the feel of his giving and taking mouth, losing herself in the fantasy that this was her life. Their life. That they’d come home each and every day to each other—and to their cat, Oscar—and argue about what to wear to the next social function or what kind of art belonged in their home.
And when he tilted her head to deepen their kiss, she wondered if he wasn’t doing the exact same thing—reveling in this moment rather than dealing with reality.
Chase’s nod was final but there was an ellipsis in his eyes.