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The Timber Trio was playing tonight, which always brought in a big crowd, and people were dancing and playing pool and having a good time. But me? I was officially losing it.
Brooding at the bar, gripping my water glass, chugging it like it was something stronger, shooting dirty looks at every fucker who even made eye contact with her. I never intended to be the jealous husband, never in my life expected I’d become one. Not at all. But anymore, it didn’t feel optional.
Thankfully, Hazel was too busy running around and pouring beers and working in her usual focused, strategic manner to notice. She always had the right glass within reach, always had a bar towel in the back pocket of her jeans. Everything about her exuded competence. And it was such a fucking turn-on.
Finally, well after midnight, the place was clearing out. The band had packed up and the kitchen had closed, and I helped Jim stack the chairs and mop while Hazel handled the bar tasks.
“Can you two lock up?” Jim asked. “I trust this one”—he nodded at Hazel—“but I’m not sure I like you.”
I rolled my eyes. “You were my little league coach, Jim.”
“That I was. You were trouble even then. And now here you are, married to the smartest girl ever to come from Lovewell. You best not screw this one up, son.”
With a nod, I dropped my chin and busied myself with the mop bucket. If only he knew just how hard I was trying not to do just that. My marriage to Hazel, as fake as it was, had been the best thing to ever happen to me. I was healthy, happy, and finally getting my shit together.
It may not be traditional or look like other marriages, but it was working for us.
Which was why I had to learn to keep my hands to myself.
After what happened in the woods earlier that afternoon, I knew we could never go back. But I wasn’t sure we could go forward either.
Hazel and I stocked the bar in silence until Jim’s truck rumbled out of the parking lot. Then she spun to face me, planted a fist on one hip, and pinned me with a glare.
“While I appreciate the help cleaning up, maybe next weekend you don’t come babysit me at work? You scared away all my tips tonight.”
The swing of her ponytail, the arch of her brow, all those things that were so… Hazel lit me up inside and sent blood thrumming through my veins.
I took a step closer to her. “I’m not sorry,” I rasped. “Didn’t like the way those guys looked at you.”
She scowled. “Excuse me? You are out of line.”
“You. Are. My. Wife.” I took another step closer.
“Not really.”
“In the eyes of the law, you are mine. And I hate that every asshole in the county came here tonight to look at your tits and your lips and your hair.”
She slammed that one fist on the bar top. “What has gotten into you? Why on earth are you thinking about my tits all of a sudden? They aren’t even that impressive.”
“Jesus.” I roughed my hands through my hair to keep from grabbing her and shaking some sense into her. “Not impressive? I dream about those tits every night. I would do anything to touch them again. Lick them and bite them and watch you squirm.”
“Remy.” Her tone was sharp, but her chest was heaving.
“You’d love it, too, wouldn’t you? You like a little bit of a rough touch, I bet.”
“Stop it,” she commanded. Her voice quivering.
“I want to stop,” I growled, stalking closer. “But I can’t.” I pushed forward, backing her up against the bar, caging her between my arms. Because of our height difference, I had to dip low, close enough to hear her pulse pounding, to whisper in her ear.
“I can’t control myself around you. You are mine. And I want every asshole in this bar to know it.”
“I’m wearing your wedding ring. Isn’t that enough?”
We were so close now, almost chest to chest, that the heat radiating off her body soaked through my shirt, warming my skin. I gripped the bar so hard to keep my hands off her I thought I might leave dents in the oak.
“No. It’s not good enough for me. I want all of you, Hazel. And it’s eating me up inside. I want to touch you and possess you and have all of you.”
There. I had said it. The words I had been holding in for weeks.
