“I know she’s remarkable,” I said, hearing the edge in my voice.
Anthony’s mouth curved. “Good. Then make sure everyone else knows it too.” He clapped me on the shoulder. “I’ll be in touch.”
I watched him walk to his motorcycle, swing his leg over, and roar out of the driveway.
When I turned around, Cate was standing in the hallway, arms crossed.
“He seemed nice,” she said carefully.
“He was looking at you.”
“He was vetting me. That’s his job.”
“He was looking at you,” I repeated, and heard how I sounded: possessive, irrational. “The way he smiled at you. The way he complimented your baking.”
“Gabriel.” She stepped closer. “He’s your lawyer. He’s supposed to assess whether we’re convincing as a couple.”
“He was assessing more than that.”
“Are you jealous?” There was something in her voice—surprise mixed with something else. Something pleased.
“Yes.”
The admission came out harder than I intended, and I watched her eyes widen.
“Of Anthony Gallagher? The fifty-something-year-old biker lawyer?”
“Of any man who looks at you the way he did.”
She stared at me for a long moment, then crossed the remaining distance between us. Her hands came up to my chest, fingers curling into my shirt.
“He’s not the one I married,” she said quietly.
“I know.”
“He’s not the one I’m sleeping with.”
“I know.”
“He’s not the one I—” She stopped, and I watched something flicker across her face. Something she wasn’t ready to say yet.
I pulled her against me, one hand sliding into her hair. “You’re mine, Cate.”
“I know.”
“I don’t care if it’s irrational. I don’t care if it’s too much. You’re my wife, and I don’t like other men looking at you like they’re imagining—”
She kissed me, cutting off the words.
When she pulled back, her eyes were bright. “For the record? I like it when you’re possessive.”
“You do?”
“Yeah.” Her smile was small, almost shy. “It’s kind of hot.”
I kissed her again, slower this time, and felt some of the tension ease from my shoulders.
“He’s right, you know,” I murmured against her mouth. “You are remarkable.”
