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It’s a cool, almost-winter day outside, so I dressed for a brunch out. But I know we’re eating in. So, for the eightieth time, I wonder if Ishould change into something more casual or if the silk cami, sweater, and black slacks are appropriate.
I could put on a hoodie and jeans. But what if I show up and all the other women are in nice outfits? Wouldn’t it be worse to be underdressed than overdressed?
Plus, I already matched my nails to my cami—both the same ice-pink color.
Luke looked at me like I was losing it when he found me lining up all my nail polish bottles on top of the outfit I’d laid over his bed. I’m not sure what surprised him more. That I paint my own nails or that I was doing it to match my outfit. But when he tried to rearrange the order I had them in, I slapped his hand away, and he left me alone.
It was a real marriage moment for us.
Making a sound in the back of my throat, I accept I just need to wear what I’m wearing.
I shuffle over to the bench next to the front door, drop down, and stare at my selection of shoes.
What shoes does someone wear to brunch with the girls?
The Sunday brunch that Luke agreed to on my behalf, in the parking garage of the arena, after his friend walked in on us having yeti sex in the locker room.
I’ve done my best to put that wholeBlizz sex incidenton Thursdayout of my mind since it happened, distracting myself with moving into Luke’s place.
Okay, well, not the sex part, just the getting caught part. No offense to Jackson Wilder, fan favorite of the Minnesota Sleet, but I would love to never see that man again in my lifetime. Maybe even two lifetimes.
Sighing, I drag my black ballet flats toward me.
Luke helped me unpack, but I only left a handful of my shoes out; the rest are in the guest room closet.
He already had it set up as an office but claims he never uses it, so I took it over for the days I work from home. And there’s a second full bathroom in the condo as well, but it has nothing on the main suite, so I’m sharing that one with Luke.
If I were going to live here for real, there are a few art pieces Iwould get out of storage, but that seems a bit like overstepping, no matter what Luke says. And the place really is gorgeous as it is.
With a final sigh, I tuck my phone into my purse and grab the bottle of champagne I took from Luke’s pantry, then follow him out the door.
The drive from Luke’s, or ratherour,place in Minneapolis to Jackson’s place in St. Paul is just long enough for my anxiety levels to really spike.
Halfway through the drive, a warm palm settles on my bouncing thigh. “What are you so nervous about, Princess?”
“I’m not nervous.” My voice comes out squeaky.
Luke squeezes my leg. “You didn’t even try to sound convincing. Now tell me.”
“What am I nervous about?” I repeat his question and lift my hand to count off the reasons. “One, you’re taking me to the home of the man who literally walked in on us fucking. And there’s no way he didn’t tell his wife about that.”
Luke makes an amused sound. “Oh, he definitely told Katelyn.”
I shoot a glare at Luke. “Two, his wife will either find it funny, think I’m trashy, or she’ll be pissed about it, thinking that her husband saw parts of me he shouldn’t.”
The hand on my thigh flexes. “The only parts of you that Jackson saw were covered in fur. I made sure of it. Or else I’d be taking Jackson to an active construction site today to bury him in concrete rather than buy him a French dip.”
That’s…
I focus back out the windshield.
That shouldn’t be hot.
“Two.” I refocus and tick off my second finger. “This is the same apartment you told me you were hiding in while you were mad at me, so I’m betting they’ve heard some not-so-nice things about me.”
“First,” Luke grunts. “I wasn’t hiding. I was sulking. There’s a difference. And second, they literally always sided with you, even when I was having my liveliest of pity parties.”
Luke slides his hand farther up my thigh.
