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I’m not one for public displays of affection. I hate putting on a show, and I especially loathe doing so in front of my colleagues. Or his. But after the day I’ve just had, I simply bury my face against his neck and breathe in the scent of his aftershave.
I whimper when he continues walking, like lifting me, even with an injured arm, is a non-event for him, and I sigh when his good arm perches beneath my ass to hold my weight, while his not-so-great side comes up and his hand massages the knots in my back.
“I missed you like crazy,” I mumble against his neck. “It’s ridiculous and stupid. I enjoyed a life of independence before you, but now you’ve got me having withdrawals like some kind of stupid housewife.”
“You got a double whammy of shit today.” Pulling back and ignoring my jab about married life, he presses a kiss to my temple. Then another to my jaw. “Murderous medico, then a little girl.”
“How do y—”
“Because you’re my wife.” He tucks my face close again so he can see ahead without stumbling. His coarse stubble rubs my sensitive skin, and his cologne settles deep in my lungs.
Home. That’s what he is to me.
“It’s my job to know what’s going on in your life,” he continues.
“You checked up on me.”
“I heard about the little girl on our radios,” he corrects. “I knew she’d be yours. I knew she’d hurt your heart. Why is Fletch hugging Seraphina?”
“What?” I twist in his arms so fast, I throw our weight to the side and make Arch step off-course or risk dropping me. I wrench my neck and trust all of my weight to an injured man, but just outside Tim’s front door, Fletch tugs Seraphina in for a side hug and a noisy ‘mwah’ kiss to her temple.
He gets only a second before she tosses his arm off and elbows him in the ribs.
Aubree laughs.
Seraphina smirks.
Fletch grins.
“That’s not a hug, Detective Malone. It’s unwanted touch.” A heavy gust of wind rips along the street and throws my hair back with awhooshthat steals my breath away. Twisting back around, I smile down at my husband and sink deep into the mesmerizing emerald that makes his eyes unique.
The three Malone men I’ve met so far each possess varying shades of green that clearly came from their father. Strong genes, certainly. But none are as beautiful as Archer’s. None have that depth, like a pool waiting for someone to laze and float.
Though he tries to walk, I lean in and press a kiss to his lips. “How was your day?”
“Eh…” he shrugs. “It went okay. Still got some legwork to do before we tie our case up. Why do you smile every time the breeze whips your hair back?”
A fresh new grin stretches across my face and warms my cheeks. “Don’t you feel the electricity in the air? It’s so crisp and fresh.”
“It’s windy,” he laughs. “And wind means a man’s BO blows into my face when I’m trying to arrest him.”
“Weird association.” Loosening my legs when he comes to a stop just outside the noisy bar, I slide along his body and stop when my toes touch the ground. Then I fix my bag so it sits in the crook of my arm. “You think of body odor, I think of summer storms that light up the sky.”
He glances up so all I see is the underside of his jaw and the stubble he never truly shaves off. “There are no clouds.”
I grab his face and pull him back down to meet my eyes. “There doesn’t need to be a storm to feel the magic.”
A single, inquisitive brow shoots high on his forehead. “Magic? Minka Mayet, the non-romantic,alwaysserious doctor for the dead… believes in magic?”
“Winter’s almost over,” I say instead. “Spring starts in just a few days. You can’t possibly say you don’t feel it in the air.”
“Well…” He backs me up against the wall of the bar and slides the tips of his fingers along my jaw. His body is hard, muscular and all-consuming as he blocks out everything except him, but his touch is feather-soft. Loving. Appreciating. “I’m still busy processing you and magic in the same sentence. It’s… weird.”
“Shut up.” I press my fist to his stomach and attempt to push him back, but I put hardly any effort into it, and if I’m being entirely honest with myself, I don’t want him to go anywhere. “I didn’t say the weather was magic. I just said—”
“You’re a romantic.” He presses a gentle kiss to my lips. Just a nip. A taste. Then he pulls back. “I’m sorry you had a crappy day. We can’t expect to work with death and not get some really fucked up cases sometimes.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” I murmur, “and it’s bad karma to say sorry for something you didn’t do.”
