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And, as annoying as it was, it was likely good that I didn’t have the opportunity to rear back and punch him, because the whole bakery was watching, and we were supposed to be married.
Therefore, I wasn’t supposed to hit him for kissing me.
“Hi, wifey,” Kip greeted, rubbing his nose against mine.
My entire body rebelled against the label and the gesture.
“No,” I hissed at him, glancing around to see who was watching.
Everybody.
Everybody was fucking watching.
“We are not doing nicknames,” I said a bit softer. “I fucking hate nicknames with regular fucking couples. No fucking nicknames.”
Kip seemed completely amused at my fury. And he was still holding on to me.
My heart was thundering, and my stomach felt weird. Obviously because of the rage. I’d never felt rage like this before.
That was why.
“Okay, no nicknames,” he said, quieter and with some kind of sultry voice I was sonotinto.
And he was still looking far too fucking satisfied and amused.
“Are you going to let me go any time soon?” I gritted out.
I was gently trying to extricate myself from his arms in a way that didn’t look obvious to observers, but it wasn’t working.
“Soon,” Kip said. “Just giving the peanut gallery what they want. Plus, we don’t know who’s watching.” He winked.
I blew out a frustrated sigh. “As highly as I think of myself, I truly don’t believe the government is wasting resources on me right now.”
“You don’t know what my government wastes its time and resources on,” he countered.
So, he held me just a little while longer.
Much too long.
When he finally let me go, I stomped back to the kitchen with an armful of cups.
My knees were not weak.
No, they were not.
* * *
I was sitting with a glass of wine and a simpering temper by the time my front door opened and closed.
My fury had been brewing for quite some time. Kip and Rowan had come to the bakery first thing this morning, as was their norm. Kip then finished work just after five.
“Hey, wifey,” he said easily, again sauntering into the kitchen.
“Hours,” I said, thrumming my fingers against my wineglass. “I’ve hadhoursof thinking about all the different ways I could kill you, dispose of your body, and get away with it.” I took a sip of wine. “And, like many women my age, I am obsessed with serial killer documentaries, so I know all the best ways to do it. Vats of acid. Pig farms. Or simply throwing you in the ocean and letting the sharks get you.”
I stared at him, standing in my kitchen, wearing faded jeans, his socks—he did have the decency to take off his filthy boots at the door—a tight tee that had grimy streaks on it. He still had his cap on, and his dirty-blond hair was curling under the bottom of it.
He hadn’t shaved, so there was also a dirty-blond shadow on his damn chiseled and square jaw.
