Page 10 of My Husband Problem

I’m finally in my husband’s arms. Because a shrimp attempted to kill me.

God, he smells so good.

Just outside, Declan sets me on my feet on the colorful patio decorated with the same half-sunny-daytime-half-moody-nighttime chaos as the inside of the restaurant that’s a coffee shop until four p.m., then a bar until midnight.

Ironically, Declan is standing on the yellow-and-pink “daytime” side while my feet are on the dark blue and gray side.

He doesn’t give me much space, and I stand looking up at him, telling myself to step back, but not obeying.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

His voice is deep and grumbling, and there seems to be true concern in his gaze.

I nod. “Their damned spices.”

I sniff and realize my nose is still runny.

Dammit. I’m facing the hottest man I know, the one who makes me actually want to get naked for the first time in years, and my eyes are watery, my nose is runny, and my throat is burning.

My hand suddenly flies up to cover my mouth. I’ve been eating shrimp. Spicy shrimp. I can’t imagine how my breath must smell.

“You don’t like spice?” he asks.

A truly unfortunate part of my brain wants to make a joke about liking spice just fine, but I just shake my head. “Not Louisiana spice. These people are crazy.”

“Yet you are voluntarily living amongst them.”

I’m wondering how I can surreptitiously wipe my nose with him practically standing on top of me. I nod. “The beignets and pralines help make up for it.”

The corner of his mouth ticks up slightly, and I brace myself. If he smiles at me while we’re standing this close, it won’t be the shrimp that sends me to the afterlife.

“So you moved down here for the beignets and pralines?”

Honestly, standing this close to him while he’s talking low and gruff might kill me anyway. Just slower.

But no, he’s not going to seduce me with his voice by talking aboutwhyI moved to Louisiana. We’re going to keep pretendingthat it’s completely about buying a brand new, fresh and fun hockey team.

The hockey team was a total excuse to get several thousand miles away from my husband. The fact that the team ended up wildly successful and a ton of fun was a bonus.

“Beignets and hockey, what could be better?” I ask.

“Right.”

I sniff again and move my hand a little higher to wipe under one of my eyes, where I can feel moisture and have the sneaking suspicion that my mascara has smudged.

“Here.”

I watch as he reaches up and pulls his tie away from his collar. He had already loosened the knot slightly at his neck, and I marvel that he is still in his suit jacket and tie anyway.

It’s June, and it’s already hot and humid here. I moved here last July and can attest that it will soon be skin-sizzling hot.

But I swear Declan probably sleeps in his suits. I have rarely seen him out of them and pray to God I never will. The man is hot in a custom-tailored suit. I do not need to see him in less. I am hanging on by a thread as it is.

He hands me the silk tie that I am certain costs more than some people inside Perks and Rec pay for their monthly car payments.

I take the deep, maroon silk, resisting the urge to lift it to my nose and inhale—I can’t help it, Declan O’Grady smells amazing—and look up at him, confused.

“Wipe your nose.”