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“It’s fine. I like my shirts. They are comfortable.”
“I know you like those raggedy college shirts for some reason.” He comes out partly clothed.
Thank god.
“I remember you wearing one when I saw you at the store.” He tosses me a maroon shirt and I catch it, lifting it in the air.
Across the chest, it says Harvard on it. He can’t see me because I’m blocking him with the shirt as I hold it up, but my eyes begin to water.
No one has ever noticed how much I love shirts like this. I don’t know why. I find them comfortable, simple, and they go easily with my day-to-day life.
“Now, there are nicer clothes in there. Gowns, for the events, blouses, skirts, jeans, but I have plenty of shirts in there like that for you. I assumed they are your favorite. You wear a different one every day.”
“I can’t believe you noticed that.” I drop the t-shirt and wipe my eyes, hoping he doesn’t see how much this gesture affects me. “You’re making it hard to hate you, you know.”
He buttons his white shirt and winks at me. “That’s the plan you know, chipping away at the hate you have for me only to realize it’s been love all along.”
I snort, rolling my eyes. “You are a wishful thinker.”
“I suppose with you I am,” he states, tucking his shirt in his pants. “It’s new to me too. I’m not like this with everyone. I have a reputation, an image, and you soften that image, even with those sharp little daggers you like to throw at me when you glare.”
“I do not glare,” I say, glaring at him, but I keep my tone light.
“I wouldn’t have you looking at me any other way. I’d wonder if something was wrong with you.”
“You think you’re so funny.” I finally get out of bed and my shorts ride up my legs. I stretch, yawning and the small strap to my top falls down my shoulder.
Since I’m still half asleep because I’m not really a morning person, he’s suddenly next to me, his fingers playing with the flimsy material. I can’t help it, I tilt my head to the side, my body once again betraying me to give him access to a part of me. The calloused pads of his fingers, ones that kill and torment, touch me as if I’m broken glass, something fragile he doesn’t want to break.
He is making it very hard to hate him.
“I’m hilarious, Tesoro.” He places the strap back on my shoulder, then bends down, kissing that same spot on my shoulder.
My skin reacts, pebbling from his kiss again.
“Get dressed. We need to leave soon.” He looks me up and down as if getting one more fill of me before he has to leave.
Has anyone ever looked at me like that?
And why hasn’t he kissed me yet? He’s always talking about how I’m his wife and he wants to give this an actual shot, make a baby the real way, which I wouldn’t mind now that I think about it, but he hasn’t made a move.
I’m relieved he hasn’t, but I’m also disappointed.
What does he want from me then?
I get dressed like he says, wearing the Harvard shirt he gave me, then wiggle into a pair of jeans. I spray dry shampoo on my roots and place more product in my hair to tame these beasts of curls. I toss some mascara on too, liking how the rich black makes my eye color pop.
When I’m done, I slip on my tennis shoes and walk down the hall, hearing Ari talk low on the phone. I can’t make out the conversation but when I step into the kitchen, he hangs up, tucking his phone in his pocket.
“Are you ready? Let’s go.”
Matias and Gianni are already outside by the car waiting for us. I feel like I’m being pushed out the door and it’s starting to tick me off.
“I love surprises, but I don’t like how I’m being rushed or shoved out the door. Is this where you sell me or something? Is the buyer meeting us and changing his demands? It’s that why you’re flustered?”
“I am not flustered. Men like me do not fluster,” he says calmly.
“Your hurried steps and pressure on my lower back say otherwise,” I clip.
