It starts to get through my thick skull.
Did she think I was flirting back? Is that what she saw from across the field? I was trying to get away from those women as fast as I could while dealing with a dog with a malfunctioning prosthetic and a bad shoulder. And I still managed to look like I was interested?
Shit. I’m bad at this. I’ve always been bad at relationships. I don’t say the right things, I don’t show enough, I keep too much locked down because that’s the only way I know how to operate.
“You could have your pick,” she says, boots tracing an arc in the dirt. “You could have any woman you wanted. And I want you to be happy.”
I look at her. The uncertain set of her mouth. The way she’s not quite meeting my eyes. The careful, controlled way she’s holding herself together while she offers to dissolve our marriage with her voice barely steady.
Have I fucked up that badly?
“You think I want… freedom?” I say. “From you?”
That sounds like the further thing from happiness in the world.
She bites her lip. “They’re gorgeous,” she blurts. “Like, professionally beautiful. And willing. They were all over you. It was like that wedding ring you’re wearing wasn’t even there. Or worse, like that wedding ring was a beacon. Like, the fact that you’re married makes you even more attractive to them.”
Yeah, okay, she’s jealous.
The cold in my chest dissolves immediately. Because jealous I can work with. Jealous means she cares. Jealous means these deep, complicated, intense feelings I’m having for my wife aren’t one-sided.
And jealous means I’ve failed to make her feel certain of me, which is something I can fix right now.
“Lila.” I step closer. “Baby, look at me.”
Her long lashes lift as her gaze meets mine. I cup her cheek. “Those vows we said to each other, I live by every single word. We’re married, sweetheart.”
“But not for real.”
I frown. “There’s a marriage certificate in our safe that says otherwise.”
I keep it next to the guns and gold bars and the Patek Philippe watch I got myself as a gift after the first Stanley Cup.
As far as I’m concerned, our marriage certificate is more precious than everything else in that safe combined.
“You know what I mean,” Lila says. “Of course, we started having sex and that makes things more complicated, or maybe it doesn’t, not for you, but?—”
I kiss her.
She makes a small surprised sound against my mouth and then her hands find my chest and she stops arguing, which is exactly what I wanted but didn’t know how to accomplish with words.
I wrap one arm around her waist and pull her in until there’s no space left between us, and she melts into me the way she always does, like she was made to fit there.
My other hand slides into her hair and tugs gently, tipping her head back. She sighs and opens for me and I take my time with it, savoring the feel of her lips against mine. When I finally pull back she’s flushed and her eyes flutter open slowly.
I press another kiss to her forehead. “Let’s get something straight. You’re my wife. You’re the only woman I have eyes for. The only woman in the world I want.” I put her left hand against mine, my hand rough and tanned against her smooth skin and manicured fingers. Our wedding rings clink together. “These rings here mean I’m yours. And you, sweetheart? You’re all mine.”
Her eyes go shiny and then she kisses me again.
From somewhere behind me I hear the quiet whir of a camera. I glance back. Sure enough, one of the crew has the lens trained on us, and the set photographer is already scrolling through what he got.
Good. Let them film it. Let there be evidence. As far as the world is concerned, as far as her family is concerned, this is exactly what it looks like: a husband holding his wife like she’s the most important thing in the world.
Which, if I’m being honest with myself, is exactly what it is.
She searches my face for a long moment, like she’s looking for the catch.
“Okay,” she says softly. “But if you want that to change?—”
