His hand is still gripping the gear shift, knuckles white, so I put my hand atop his. My engagement ring sparkles even in the dim light.
“I’m very happy,” I tell him honestly. “I’m still not entirelysure what you’re getting from this crazy deal, but I’m very glad you made it.”
Lifting his hand from the gearshift, he twines his fingers in mine. “I get to call the most beautiful woman in the world my wife.”
His eyes are glinting when he says it, so I assume he’s teasing me. I laugh even as a very real flush comes to my face.
“Yeah, yeah, cowboy,” I tell him. “You’ve already sealed the deal. You don’t need to lay on the charm.”
He squeezes my hand before coming around to my side to open the door for me. As I take a step out, I’m quite literally swept off my feet.
One moment I’m stepping out of the truck and the next I’m in his arms. Slade makes it look effortless, one arm under my knees, one at my back, the silk of my wedding dress tumbling over his forearm.
It makes me all too aware of exactly how strong he is, how solid, how completely capable of carrying me like I weigh nothing significant.
Yes, this man could easily toss me around in bed.
No sex, we told each other. Truly a pair of fools rushing into this whole thing. I giggle to myself at my hopeless conundrum, because that feels better than screaming about it.
His eyes flicker with amusement as he glances at me, striding towards the house with me in his arms. “Exactly how much champagne did you have tonight?”
I wasn’texactlykeeping track. “Precisely the right amount for my wedding night,” I declare, burrowing into his chest as Lucky trots easily behind us. “Dare I ask why I’m being carried right now?”
He bends to open the door. “A husband ought to carry his bride across the threshold.”
I wrap my arms around his neck and elect not to examine how natural this feels.
Inside, Lucky goes straight to her bed in the corner of the living room and collapses, done after all the commotion of the wedding.
Slade sets me down slowly, my body sliding down the full length of his until my feet find the floor. His hands rest at my waist for one moment before he steps back.
He pushes a hand back through his dark hair as he says, “We’re this way.”
As I follow, I pretend like I don’t know this house every inch as well as he does. Probably better, since I’ve made detailed sketches and 3d renderings of it.
He stops at the second door on the right and pushes it open.
“Here you go,” he says.
I step inside. I know this room. It’s the room I’ve been working on for the last two weeks. The one that’s supposed to be for guests and that I’ve been really decorating with myself in mind, given that I’m the current guest.
My bags and boxes are stacked neatly in the walk-in closet off to the side. The bed I ordered has arrived, an antique iron canopy frame that’s romantic and masculine at the same time. Atop it is the pinstripe linen duvet I selected, along with velvet and wool throw pillows. The vintage dresser I found at an estate sale sits against the far wall. The curtains are soft and gauzy and move slightly in the heat coming from the vent.
It’s lovely. I made it lovely.
What it is not ishisroom.
“I’m right next door,” he says, as if I’m not entirely too aware of that fact. “If you need anything.”
“Perfect,” I say, bright and easy, doing a pretty good impression of a woman who is totally fine with this arrangement.
There’s a pause. He looks like he wants to say something, but all that comes out of his mouth is, “Goodnight, then.”
“Night,” I say.
He pulls the door closed behind him.
I stand in the middle of the room I designed and listen to his footsteps move down the hall. Hear his door close.
