“Fine. I’ll shower with you.”
“No, you will not.”
“Why?” Her flirtatious tone shifts to disappointment and frustration.
“I’m not about to be injured and unable to use one arm the first time we’re naked together.”
“I’m six months pregnant by a six-foot-five-inch former defensive hockey player. I look like I swallowed a beach ball.”
“No, you do not.” I chuckle at her dramatics. “Maybe a basketball.”
“See? We’re even.” She moves closer and extends her hand. “I’ll remove these bandages and help you wash.”
I bat her arm away. “Go, Aurora. I mean it.”
The semi-playful atmosphere comes to an abrupt and harsh end.
She draws a steadying breath and releases it slowly. “How did you picture us married if you won’t let me help you? Or shower with you? Or sleep with you? You won’t even tell me when you’re hungry. We’re going to your sister’s wedding. Who will I be to you?”
“You don’t have to go.” Hell,Idon’t want to go.
Her jaw tightens and her voice rises. “I want to go. What are you not getting? I want to be with you. I want to care for you. Now, answer the question.”
I drag my fingers through my hair while I contemplate a response. “It’s not you. It’s them. They won’t understand this arrangement, and it’s not worth the hassle.” Once the words escape my mouth, I realize how bad they sound. “That’s not—I didn’t mean it like that. You’re worth it.”
Her eyes glisten, and she heads for the door. “I’ll leave you alone.”
I scramble for something to say. “When I picture us married, I picture caring foryou, not you waiting on me hand and foot.”
“And I picture loving you freely.” The door slams shut.
I manage to remove the gauze and shower, and then I decide to let the incisions air out.
Yeah, that’s what I’m doing. It’s definitely not because I couldn’t get the bandage on my shoulder to stay properly, or because I threw the roll of medical tape across the room.
One-handed, I stumble into a pair of boxers and shorts. I yank a clean white T-shirt over my head, wrestle my useless arm through the sleeve, and then wrestle some more with the flimsy sling. I’m reminded I could have chosen a ten-thousand-dollar bionic arm brace and made this recovery a hell of a lot easier on myself, but I stubbornly refused.
When I leave the bathroom, I’m overworked, overtired, and overstimulated, the cotton grating against my hypersensitive skin.
Still, I search for Aurora, expecting her to be reading on the couch or napping in Ethan’s room. She tried to tell me about her newest book, but I couldn’t keep my eyes open—something about a psychopath who collects the hearts of his girl’s enemies and stores them in glass jars.
That’s an idea. We have three of Hugo’s guys in lock-up. Maybe cutting out their hearts will improve my piss-poor mood.
Instead of Aurora, I find Charlie making an espresso using the fancy new machine Jax bought. God forbid his boyfriend use a twenty-dollar drip coffeemaker.
“She’s not here,” my partner says before I ask.
“What do you mean she’s not here? Where the hell would she go?”
“The twins took her to the beach house.” He brings the tiny mug to his lips—pinky sticking out slightly—takes a sip, and sighs longingly.
I attempt to shake off the irritability, reminding myself I wanted to be alone. But now that I am, I only feel worse. “Why? And aren’t you supposed to be watching them?”
He tilts his head back with a dramatic groan. “They’re so annoying. One never shuts up, and the other glares at me with murderous intentions. Which wouldn’t be so terrifying if I hadn’twitnessedhim murder someone.”
“You’ve seen me kill plenty of people.” I open the fridge, grab a water bottle, and stare at the cap before using my teeth to twist it. I squeeze too hard, and the liquid spills down my chin and fingers.
Charlie pretends not to notice, but his eyes are grinning. “Yeah, but you didn’t enjoy it. I heard Dante growl, ‘Wrong house, wrong night, motherfucker’,” he mocks, his voice dropping to lethal levels. “Then,pop! He shot the guy in the foreheadwithmygun.”
