Page 74 of Ruthless Enforcer

Then I hear a faint thump.

It can only be Gabriel, so I go to his room and push open his door.

He's in front of his open closet, folding one of the sweaters I bought in Portland with precise, methodical care. My bag sits open on the bed, half-empty. My jeans and wedding dress are already hanging next to his shirts. The Louboutins I wore to the museum benefit are lined up on the floor beside his boots.

He glances up when I walk in, completely unbothered by the fact that he's been caught rearranging my entire life without asking.

"You're done for the night?" he asks, setting the sweater on a shelf he's clearly just emptied, apparently for me.

I twist my wedding ring. "What are you doing?"

"Moving you in."

I look around. His bedroom has no paintings—no art on the walls or objects chosen for beauty. Just clean lines, expensive furniture, and a view of the ocean through floor-to-ceiling windows. It's a room that doesn't expect anyone to stay.

And now my clothes are in his closet and my legal pad is on his nightstand—my life tangled up with his in ways I didn't plan and won't take back.

He reaches into the suitcase and pulls out the underwear I bought in the boutique in Portland, holding up a pair of pale-pink lace shorties with a wicked smile. "We need to get you more of these."

My face heats and I stretch out my hand. "Give me those."

He drops them into my palm. “You can put that on after we shower.”

He opens a drawer—his drawer—and starts sorting the rest of my underwear into a neat little row next to his boxer briefs like it's the most natural thing in the world. "We’re going to have to see to your trousseau. You aren’t exactly packed for a rockin’ honeymoon, are you, Duchess?"

"I didn't pack for a honeymoon at all." I stare at him helplessly. I thought I’d have to coerce him into letting me into his room. What does this mean? My heart beats fast, but I’m afraid to hope. "You didn't ask if I wanted to move into your room."

"You're my wife." He closes the drawer and turns to face me, leaning one hip against the dresser. "In name and in deed. I'm not going to pretend you don't belong here, Clara. You're sleeping in my bed from now on."

I open my mouth. Close it. I swallow the feelings and the urge to throw my arms around him and promise him forever. “Okay.”

“Okay," he says with finality. He picks up the sweatshirt he gave me the first night, now paint splattered. Folding it, he puts it on a separate shelf, away from the other clothes, and then faces me. “I’m going to take a shower. Join me.”

It's not a question—it's an invitation wrapped in certainty, delivered in that low, rough voice that makes my pulse kick.

"You're very sure of yourself.” I toss the shorties on the bed and start to unbutton the dress shirt I requisitioned from his laundry to paint in.

"I'm sure of you." He walks past me toward the bathroom, pulling his shirt over his head as he goes. "Come on, Duchess. I’m feeling very dirty."

I follow him.

Of course I do.

59

GABRIEL

I've seen enough romantic comedies to know how this goes.

The guy gets the girl. They fall in love. They live happily ever after. Nobody gets shot in a service corridor.

I look at my wife as I turn on the shower.

Close enough.

60

CLARA