Page 57 of Ruthless Enforcer

I could get used to this.

Hiding my real emotions, I pretend to gasp. "You did cry."

He squeezes me closer. "I can still annul this marriage."

I laugh softly.

"My mother got me hooked," he says, scrolling past The Proposal to reveal an entire collection: Sleepless in Seattle; 10 Things I Hate About You; Crazy, Stupid, Love; The Philadelphia Story. "Movie nights in the Reyes household were a full-contact sport. My mother and aunts controlled the television, and if you wanted to survive, you learned to appreciate the genre."

I blink up at him. "You're serious."

"Completely." He selects Crazy, Stupid, Love and lets the opening credits play. "My Tía Marisol would make empanadas, my mother would open wine, and my cousins would argue about whether Cary Grant or Tom Hanks was the superior romantic lead. I was twelve when I realized that the films with the best banter were also the ones that made my mother laugh the hardest."

There's something in his voice—affection, nostalgia, a softness I didn't expect—and I realize this is the most he's ever told me about his family—about himself.

"So you have opinions," I say carefully.

"I have discerning opinions." He switches to The Philadelphia Story. "This is the gold standard. Hepburn, Grant, and Stewart in a battle of wits that holds up eighty years later. If you don't appreciate the 'You're lit from within' speech, we can't be friends."

"We're already married," I point out.

"Doesn't mean we're friends."

I want to be. I want it so badly. I face the screen, watching the movie start. "And Crazy, Stupid, Love?"

"Ryan Gosling's best role. Fight me."

I stare at him—this man who killed to protect me, who married me to stop a war, who sits for my paintings and cooks his mother's risotto and has opinions about romantic comedies. "You're not what I expected."

He turns his head toward me. "You've said that before."

"I mean it more every time."

Something flickers in his eyes—something dangerous and warm and entirely too close to the surface.

The fire crackles. The rain hammers against the windows. The movie plays, and I watch Ryan Gosling deliver the line about being better than the Gap, and Gabriel laughs—a real, unguarded sound that makes my chest tighten.

"This is the scene," he murmurs. "Watch."

I watch, but I'm not watching the screen. I'm watching Gabriel—the way his mouth curves, the way his fingers tap against the couch in time with the music, the way he's completely, unapologetically himself in this moment.

I like this version of him. I love it.

Gabriel glances down at me, and his grin turns knowing. "You're not watching the movie, Duchess."

"I'm watching you," I reply honestly.

He tugs a strand of my hair. "Dangerous habit."

"I know."

The amusement fades from his expression, and his fingers brush the exposed curve of my shoulder. "Clara, this doesn't change anything. We're still temporary."

"I know." Damn it.

But neither of us moves.

And as the movie plays and the fire burns low and the storm rages outside, I let myself have this. Just for tonight I let myself sit beside my husband and pretend that temporary might be enough.