Page 149 of Marrying the Savage

“Sure,” I say.

“And very comfortable admitting these things.”

“I’m old enough to know denial wastes time.”

She looks at me with open irritation, which is much better than the hurt from before. “You’re only old enough to make that sound like wisdom.”

I almost smile. She sees it and softens for half a second.

There. That’s where the danger is. Not in her anger. I understand anger. Not even in her schemes, though I should look harder at whatever she’s hiding behind those eyes.

The danger is this: I like giving her things.

A ring. Coffee. A phone call. A piano she mentioned as a joke. The right to choose a dress because the ones in her wardrobe made her feel like a ghost in her own marriage.

It’s not generosity. I know myself better than that.

“When?” she asks.

“Tomorrow afternoon.”

“Morning.”

“No.”

She glares. “Why not?”

“Because I have work in the morning.”

“And you need to personally attend my shopping trip like a royal inspector?”

“Yes.”

Her mouth opens. Then closes.

Then opens again. “You’re coming?”

“Of course.”

“No.”

Now it’s my turn to lift a brow. “I beg your pardon?”

“You can’t come.”

“I can.”

“No, because then every saleswoman will tremble, every guard will hover, and I will be forced to choose clothes under the gaze of a man who thinks black is a mood, a lifestyle, and a family value.”

“I will survive your criticism of my wardrobe.”

“You won’t survive mine if you glare at me while I try on lingerie.”

The word hangs between us.

Lingerie.

She realizes too late what she has said. I enjoy that.