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“I’m not sure I packed a dress that will stand up to a suit.” I turn from him and slide the closet door open. Already, my clothes have been hung up. My swimsuits lie folded in a drawer, and my denim shorts, stacked in neat piles. I didn’t bring a lot, since seven days spent at the beach—as was my initial assumption about this week—doesn’t require a lot. But what I did bring has already been unpacked by some invisible maid. “I have this thing,” I tug the sleeve of a see-through shawl Archer selected from a women’s wear store last week, “that I pull over a bikini. But I’m not sure that’s what you’re thinking.”
“It’s not. But don’t worry; I took the liberty of selecting a few gowns for you to choose from.”
Stunned, I meet his eyes. “Excuse me?”
“Well, I’d hoped you’d say yes, and considering we’re already married, I figured my chances were high in getting what I wanted. So, since I was confident?—”
“Arrogant.”
“Confident,” he counters, “I had some designers send over their offerings. They’re set up in another room that you canexplore tomorrow. The gown you choose, you get to keep. Those you don’t…”
“Go back to the designers?” My heart thuds painfully. “That’s offensive, Archer!Here, inferior dress designer. We didn’t want your crappy gown. Take it back and get it out of my sight.”
“You’re being dramatic,” he rolls his eyes. “They wanted to send them, Mayet. They wanted to dress you, and since none of them come with labels you’ll recognize, your choice will be based purely on what you like the most out of the bunch. That doesn’t make the other gowns inferior, it just makes them notthe one.”
“It makes me rude! Who am I to say Gown A is the shit, while Gowns B, C, and D are just plain shit?”
He laughs, dismissing my feelings the way he’s so infuriatingly good at, but only when my feelings are annoyingly neurotic and ridiculous. “Gowns B, C, and D are inanimate objects with no emotions. They won’t be mad at you. And the designers,” he continues when I open my mouth to argue, “will remain professional. The one you like will be the one for you. And the ones you don’t, will likely go back to their sketchpads and work on designing something better suited. You’re bound to need more gowns in the future, so they’ll take this opportunity to grow in their art and present you with something you’ll appreciate.” Lifting his chin in that come hither way he does, he smirks when I start forward. “You wanna head out to the dining room for dinner tonight?”
“Or…?” I straddle his thigh and work to push aside my panic at offending some young, faceless designer. Instead, I focus on us. On now. On the fact I’m getting married in a week.Again. “What alternative option are you presenting me?”
“Dinner delivered to our suite.” He slides his hands down and massages my thighs. “We could eat in here. Switch on the TV. Chill the fuck out, since we’ve been traveling all day.”Bringing one hand up, he strokes the puffiness beneath my eye. “You’re tired, and it’s infusion night.”
“We’re on a boat?—”
“Yes.” He presses a tender kiss to my jaw. “We are.”
“In the middle of some ocean. In the Caribbean.”
“Headed that way,” he agrees. “And the captain has assured us smooth sailing from here till we get there.”
“We’re on a boat in the ocean! The stars are out, and the sea is smooth. And you want to stay in our room?”
“I want to stay wherever the fuck you are.” He drags me closer and brushes a gentle kiss to my lips. “If you want to be in the dining room, then that’s where I’m going. If you want to stay in our room, then that’s cool, too.”
“But you like the stars.” I pout. I hate pouting. But he deserves more, and I’m a bedroom-obsessed recluse who shivers at the thought of being anywhere with an audience. “You deserve to eat under the stars and feel all that romancy smoochy poo stuff.”
“Romancy smoochy poo.” Chuckling, he slowly lowers his hand to my collarbone and drags the tips of his fingers across the top of my shoulder. “I think your inability to embrace the sugary parts of romance is adorable. Your discomfort, I’m ashamed to admit, makes me giddy.”
“Which makes you an asshole. Taking pleasure in the things I don’t like is not something I should marrytwice.”
He laughs and follows his fingertips with his lips. “But you will anyway. Because you love me.” He presses a kiss to my clavicle. “Would you join me for dinner on our balcony, Doctor Mayet?”
I look to the right and study the glass already black from night. “Our balcony?”
“Mmhmm. It’s outside, and we’ll get to see the stars. But it’s completely and totally private. You could go out there, naked as the day you were born if you want, and no one will see you.”
“Except you.”
“Well…” He nips at my shoulder and grins when I groan. “I’m your husband. It’s my constitutional right to see you in your skin.”
“Inaccurate,” I grumble. “Our forefathers negotiated basic laws for our citizens. Nowhere does it mention naked women and dinner plans.”
“Maybe we should draw up our own constitution, then. We could document what’s important to us. What’s non-negotiable. What’s negotiable. We could both sign it. Have it signed by the captain. Make it legit.”
“Sounds like a prenup to me.” I bring my hands up and slide them through his short hair. “If our marriage should, at any point, dissolve, I want to keep my textbooks, the apartment—since the lease is in my name anyway—and my new coffee machine. You keep the cat, your truck, and the coffee machine at the bar. We share custody of your brothers, Fletch, and Mia.”
Stunned, his brows shoot high on his forehead. “You don’t want shared custody of Aubree?”
