I grab my phone off the vanity and look at my calendar. The deposition has, in fact, been moved to tomorrow. Notes updated. Client copied. New invite accepted.
I look up slowly. “How are you in my calendar?”
“I’m your emergency contact.”
“That is not how technology works.”
“It is when one is competent.”
“This feels illegal.”
“Then don’t report me.”
I hate how attractive competence becomes when wrapped in arrogance.
He picks up my heels from the closet and sets them in front of me, then crouches to buckle the first strap around my ankle before I can stop him. It is an absurdly intimate thing for a man who spent the first half of our relationship communicating through blackmail and tension.
I look down at him. “You’re being weird.”
“I’m being efficient.”
“You’re kneeling on imported carpet to put shoes on my feet.”
“I have strong knees.”
“Rowan.”
He glances up, calm and unreadable. “Tessa.”
“What are you doing?”
He fastens the second shoe, rises to his full height, then smooths both hands over my hips like he’s checking for wrinkles in the fabric and not distracting me from an answer.
“Taking my wife to lunch.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m withholding.”
Before I can argue, he bends and kisses me. Slow enough to silence me, thorough enough to scramble my priorities. By the time he pulls back, I’m blinking at him like an idiot.
“There,” he says. “You’re ready.”
“For lunch?”
“For whatever comes next.”
My stomach flips.
I know that tone.
That tone built our house, bought Waffles a dog trainer after the mailman incident, and once preceded him telling me he’d already booked us a two-week trip to Italy because I’d had a hard month.
That tone means decisions have been made without me.
I point a finger at his chest. “If you bought another horse, I’m leaving.”
His brows draw together. “Why would I buy another horse? We already have two.”
