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“Already what?” he asks, his tone annoyed that I can’t come up with words.
Got all perfectly sweaty. Thank god what actually leaves my mouth is, “Worked out. I can go alone. I’ll be fine.”
He rolls his eyes at me. Like actually rolls his eyes as he wipes sweat from his forehead. I fight the urge to ask him if there’s a secret workout room in this house I should know about. Surely, he wasn’t walking around New York in a pair of workout shorts that hug his thick thighs perfectly and no shirt.
“I’m going to go get a hoodie. Do not leave without me.” His voice is so commanding that my feet stay planted even as he disappears upstairs.
If I rushed out the door right now, I’d be able to ditch him. I could disappear into the groups of people walking around Central Park. But then I’d miss out on getting some alone time with him, and for some reason, I really like the idea of casually walking around Central Park with him.
It seems almost normal, and I want it more than I should.
Maybe he thought I’d run, too. Because when he rushes back downstairs while still pulling his sweatshirt on like he didn’t want to waste a second of leaving me alone, he looks shocked to see me standing in the same place.
“I don’t need a bodyguard to go for a walk,” I argue, trying to fill the awkward silence as he comes to a stop in front of me. My fingers ball in my pockets with the vivid memory of what hismuscles felt like underneath my fingertips. At least now the sweatshirt hides his perfectly sculpted body.
“And I don’t care. I’m going to go for a walk with my wife because she wants to. Let’s go.”
He stares at me for a few seconds, his face serious. I want to know why he clenches his jaw, to ask him why he seems so angry to be doing this with me when he’s the one who insisted on it. But I don’t say anything. Instead, I follow him out the door.
We’re waiting at the crosswalk when I finally look up at him, noticing some of the tension from his face has disappeared.
“Good morning, by the way,” I say, not bothering to hide the sass in my tone.
This makes him smile. He looks way too handsome when he smiles. It’s jarring, earning something so real from him when I’ve learned he doesn’t offer genuine smiles very often. “Good morning, Winnie.”
CHAPTER 17
ARCHER
By the twentiethtime Winnie looks over at me out of the corner of her eye, I finally say something.
“Why do you keep looking at me like that?” I blurt, keeping my eyes trained on the path in front of us instead of looking at her.
She sighs, but her steps don’t falter as we continue to navigate the busy Central Park path. “How am I looking at you?”
“Like there’s something wrong with me,” I answer her, fighting the urge to grab her elbow and pull her close to me as she almost walks right into a jogger running with their dog because she was too busy staring at me.
“I just don’t understand why you insisted on coming for a walk if you’re going to scowl and stay silent the entire time.”
“I don’t scowl.”
This makes her laugh. It’s loud and free and one of the best sounds I’ve ever heard. I want to make her do it again. Which is unfortunate for me because I’ve never been known to be a man with a great sense of humor.
But I’d do just about anything to hear that sound again.
Winnie stops, leaving me no other option but to follow suit so we stay together. With a loud sigh, I turn around to face her—fully aware that the look I’m giving her right now is indeed a scowl.
Her mind must be in the same place as mine because she shakes her head. She takes a step closer to me and reaches out to place her fingertip at the corner of my mouth. “You’re scowling right now, Archer.”
Archer. The way she says my name rattles something deep inside my chest. So many people over the years have said it, and it did nothing for me. When she does, I want to hear her say it again and again.
She keeps her fingertips pressed to the corner of my mouth while I fight an inner battle with myself. Part of me wants to pull her closer; the other part of me wants to push her away and not see her until I have to again because this pull I feel toward her can’t be good.
Her eyes go to my lips for a fraction of a second before she meets my eyes. Her fingers push my lip up as she attempts to wipe away my permanent scowl. “You should try smiling more,” she insists, her voice soft and sweet. “You look handsome doing it.”
Everything about her is soft and sweet. Nothing about me is soft or sweet. The two of us have a marriage that is on paper and for appearances only. With her this close, I worry how I’ll continue to resist her.
With her this close, I’m also realizing that she’s not wearing any makeup. I’ve always seen her at parties and events with a full face of makeup. She’s stunning no matter what, but this might be my favorite way I’ve ever seen her.
