Page 48 of Sweet Surrender

“It depends on the day, really. At this point, we don’t really have to think when we play our older stuff.” He takes another sip. “What about you? Are you sitting out here creating cookie designs in your head?”

“That sounds so trivial compared to what you’re doing.” I chuckle.

“I’m not creating world peace here. Just music. Just entertainment.” That hand I was thinking about? Yeah, he turns it to palm the side of my hip and gives me a good shake. A shake that has an ache firing inches away from where those fingers rest. “Come on now. Why do you always put yourself down?”

“Habit. It’s easier. It’s—”

“Bullshit,” he finishes for me. “You’re a business owner. Many people have dreamed of doing that and few do, so don’t sell yourself short.”

“No, just sell myself to a rock star who needs to get married so I can keep said business open.”

“Stop.” He shakes me again with his hand on my hip. “No more of that when you’re with me. He might have allowed you to do it, but I won’t.”

Why is that sexy? Jase taking ownership of something that really isn’t his?

He dips his head down so we’re eye to eye. “Yes?”

“Yes,” I grumble.

“No. I want to hear some enthusiasm. Yes, Giz. You’re the best husband a woman could ever ask for,” he says with way too much cheer.

“Yes, Jase. You’re the best husband a woman could ever ask for if she were actually looking for a husband.”

He rolls his eyes but smiles so bright it could light up a room. “Now, that’s more like it.”

“I’m only here to make you happy,” I tease.

“Remember that,” he says and then takes a sip. “Especially when I tell you that your peace and quiet is going to be disturbed because Halle will be here in a little bit.”

“Halle?”

“My assistant. She’ll get your schedule and compare it to mine and let you know the events you’re needed at and whatnot.”

“Okay.”

“There probably aren’t many, so don’t worry about being forced to be with me too much.”

I nod as I meet his eyes. Doubt creeps in. “I promise I won’t cramp your style.”

He levels me with a look. “If I didn’t like you or think you were gorgeous, if I didn’t think you were sane and intelligent and would make my life easier, I wouldn’t have asked for you . . . so stop with whatever I can see going through those eyes of yours.”

Am I that transparent?

“Yes. You wear your emotions on your sleeve,” he says, answering my own question, startling me.

“It’s just a lot to be thrust into. Self-doubt is normal. Self-doubt when I know how cruel women are to other women, especially when they’re anonymous behind keyboards and are even harsher.”

“Well, raise up your hand and point to your wedding ring if they question it. That’s all that needs to be said.”

“Until we divorce and they say I told you so.” He looks at me like I’m unhinged . . . and he’s right. I am being just that. But it’s been an absolute whirlwind of a week, that I’m surprised my head is even screwed on the right way. It’s only natural for me to question, to wonder, and to feel a little unsteady.

I wouldn’t have asked for you . . .

He’s right. I’m here because he picked me, because he wanted me to be here. I just have to learn to accept it and stop comparing myself to others.

Easier said than done.

But if there’s one thing I know about men, they hate a whiny woman and that’s exactly what I’m being.