When he finished, ending his reading on a particularly indecent note, he took a bow, and the entire bar erupted in whistles and applause.
“Oh my god,” Penelope murmured.
Sutton nodded. “I mean…holy shit.”
“Seriously,” Chloe said. “I feel weird being turned on by Xander’s brother’s voice, but here we are.”
“Don’t tell Lincoln that,” I said as he strode across the bar, heading straight for our booth. “His ego’s already big enough.”
Sutton elbowed me in the side. “Hisegodefinitely isn’t what you’re thinking about.”
Chloe and Penelope laughed, but I couldn’t say anything in response because my eyes were locked on my husband’s approach. And he looked good enough to eat.
“Evening, ladies,” he said, though his eyes never strayed from mine. “Need you to look at something in the office, wife.”
“Something in theoffice, or something in your pants?” Chloe asked, causing both Sutton and Penelope to snort.
Lincoln didn’t answer, just raised a brow, tilted his head, and gave me that slow, infuriating, wife-wrecking smirk.
The crowd was still cheering for my husband, and the noise only got louder when I took his hand and slid out from the booth.
Sutton wolf-whistled, Chloe yelled, “Get it, girl!” while Penelope—my sweet, quiet Penelope—murmured, “Try not to break the desk.”
And then my deviant of a husband looked me dead in the eye and said, “No promises.”
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
LINCOLN
Beau:
You and I are overdue for a chat.
Lincoln:
That sounds mildly threatening.
Beau:
Good. It should.
Willa wasfifteen laps into her anxiety pacing when I decided to stop pretending I was reading. I closed the book in my lap and set my coffee aside, eyes never leaving her.
This wasn’t just nerves—this was a full-blown mental hurricane, and the thrice-reorganized spice cabinet was taking the brunt of it.
This morning, we’d started our Sunday like we always did. Fed the chickens, checked the hives, walked the berry rows. Then I’d made us breakfast before I’d grabbed a cup of coffeeand settled in to read the next book in what was becoming my very favorite series. It was giving me all kinds of thoughts on what I wanted to do to my wife.
Meanwhile, she paced like a caged animal hopped up on energy drinks.
Round and round she went, barefoot and unraveling, muttering under her breath the entire time. The spices had been rearranged. Then alphabetized. Then rearranged again by some system only she understood.
Her freak-out made sense, considering today was the day she’d been dreading for weeks. Harper Davidson was scheduled to arrive in thirty minutes for the final interview. The Big Interview. The one that could tank our chances or secure us the grant. And Willa’s stress levels were through the roof, which wouldn’t do us any favors.
“You planning to reorganize the entire pantry and the fridge before Harper shows up, or just the spices?” I asked before taking a sip of my coffee.
She glared at me and tossed a dish towel at my head. It landed on the floor two feet to my right.
“Not a great shot, hellcat,” I said around a grin.
