And nothing I deserve.
“Oh, I don’t know. It’d take at least five seconds to look at you and another ten for the mental victory lap that I’d tricked you into marrying me.”
Wait. What?
My eyes snap to focus on her face, and Aulie recoils in horror, her hand covering her mouth with a gasp.
I’m comfortable enough in my skin to say that most people consider me conventionally attractive. There’s a reason a soap company put me in an ad about playing dirty and getting clean with my naked torso covered in suds. But I’ve never dared include Aulie in that grouping.
“I didn’t—that—that came out wrong,” Aulie finally manages through her hand.
“Did it?” I cock my head, shifting my leg closer so it bumps against hers.
“Obviously. Because why would I think that?” She scoffs. “You’re like my brother—ew. Honestly, we should forget the whole marriage thing. Maybe we won’t touch at all. People will be so into their fried dough they won’t even care.” Aulie’s cheeks bloom with a shade of pink so gorgeous none of the flowers in this garden can compare.
Interesting.
Shamelessly, I graze my fingers over my bottom lip pretending I’m lost in thought. It’s a move Grady taught me when we started going out to bars together. He said it draws attention to the mouth, and I can usually gauge someone’s interest from their reaction.
Aulie’s eyes flick down to my lips. Desire colors her expression with a sultry hue I’ve desperately waited five years to see her wear.
Brother, my ass, you little liar.
“Nah, neither of us does anything half-assed. Let’s not start now.” I turn toward her, a new dare in my stare. “Unless you’re worried you’ll fall in love with me.”
“What? Get out of here.” She laughs. It’s tinged with discomfort as if I’ve stumbled upon something that she doesn’t want me to discover.
And like hell am I going to let this go.
“I don’t know. Running away with me could be tricky if you’re already doing mental victory laps over marrying me.”
“I know this is hard for you to believe, considering your massive ego, but I can consider you attractive and you still not be my type.” She gently pats my face, and I catch her wrist.
The hope swelling in my heart shrivels away to nothing. A dark heaviness hangs where the delicious feeling of possibility rose just a few moments ago, and I stamp the sensation down, burying it in my feelings graveyard.
Not wanting to dwell, I say a quick eulogy and turn my attention to flustering Aulie instead.
“I guess you’re just going to have to prove it, or I’ll have no other option but to think you’re already madly in love with me and afraid I’ll find out,” I say. A teasing grin spreads across my lips, eliciting an eye roll from her. “It’ll make our friendship weird, sure, but I’ll overcome your massive feelings for me, eventually.”
“Maybe I’m just worried you’ll vomit on me again. Ever think of that?”
Touché.
“Pretty sober if you want to test it out.”
“Fine.” She huffs, turning to me. “If you want a silly little wife so bad, then I’m yours. Now do what you will with me, Mr. Wickham, for you’ve already well and truly ruined me.” She says the last sentence with a dramatic flair, resting her hand on my chest. Right on the spot that’s hers.
My throat bobs as the heat of her palm seeps through and becomes one with the ink resting beneath my shirt.
With a small smirk and a raised eyebrow, she silently dares me to follow through, as if she knows I’m all talk and no game.
My competitive side kicks in. There’s no way I can let that look slide.
“Mine, huh?” My arm wraps around her waist. With a growl, I pull her into me. Her breath hitches, and her eyes widen as her body molds to mine. Delicately, my fingers trace the shape of her jaw. A hushed reverie overcomes me. “Mywife.” The words slip out, but I don’t have the wherewithal to regret them. It’s intoxicating to hold her like this and imagine it’s real. I’ll be chasing this high forever.
We’re suspended in time, our lips mere centimeters apart, and the following second stretches into eternity. The temptation to taste her overwhelms any other want or need I could have, but I’ve gotten the impression that we’re playing a game of chess, and it’s not my move.
“Mr. Wickham, are you—” Her mouth pulls toward mine, and her breath grows ragged. But she remains restrained, never letting our lips brush. “Are you going to kiss me anytime soon?”
