What the hell?Is he monitoring my food the way Barb does all of a sudden? “If you felt that way about what I eat, and how I look,” I whisper fiercely, “why’d youmarryme?”
For a moment, Brayden’s dark blond eyebrows knit in confusion. “Sugar is bad for your headaches, right?” He lifts my drink, sips it assessingly. “This isn’t sweet.”
I blink a few times. So this was about mymigraines. “Yeah, sugar can be a trigger for some people. Mine are mostly dark alcohols and certain smells.”And stress and… and… and…
“Which smells?” He brushes his nose against his own shirt collar as if sniffing for traces of cologne.
“No, you smell good—I mean, your cologne doesn’t bother me.”
His lips curve up at the edges. “What else bothers you?”
“I could write a list out?—”
“I’ll remember if you tell me.”
Like he’s my real husband. Like I’m his real wife. Like anything between us is genuine and not just because we’re both using each other. “Don’t,” I whisper. “Don’t do this if you don’t mean it.”
He turns to me, close enough that his nose drags up the suddenly sensitized skin of my neck. “Who says I don’t mean it?”
I raise my hand to his chest to push him away, except I don’t quite manage it and my fingers tangle in the fabric of his shirt. “This isn’t a joke. This isn’t—” My voice catches. “This is serious.”
Brayden reaches up and catches my fingers in his own. His hand is dry and slightly rough at his fingertips—I shouldn’t enjoy the feel of it or the sincere way he’s looking at me now.
This is just an act. It has to be. Our marriage certificate came with coupons to a local casino. But right now, I don’t want to be lied to. I don’t want to fake it. I want to be out with my husband having one drink and exchanging secrets in our little corner of the universe. “Dark alcohol is my main trigger—clear liquor is better. Sometimes sugar, but usually not so much I have to give up chocolate.”
“Liquor’s bad. Chocolate’s good. What else?”
“The cleaning supplies they used at the hospital I volunteered at were the worst.”
“Is that why—” he begins. “You were a nursing student, right?”
“Brayden, were you stalking my LinkedIn?”
That gets me another smile. “Maybe. Can I tell you something?”
“Uh, sure.” Though my heart starts beating a little faster.
“I don’t really understand what bioinformatics is. Guess I’m not smart enough to have you for my wife.”
Men have said the same thing to me over the years. Or what they’ve said is,You’re too smart for me. Different thanI’m not smart enough for you.
I drop my hand back down to his thigh. Run my fingertips along the seam of his pants. “Did you want me to explain it right now?” I say.
His throat clicks as he swallows. “I don’t know how much I’ll get—” and oh, here it goes, him telling me that what I’m studying is just socomplicated“—so you’ll have to go slow.”
“Is that the pace you normally like?” I tease. “I’ve seen your games. Usually, you playhard.”
An instant later, I’m pressed against the back of the booth, Brayden leaning over me, a hand at the back of my neck, another at my jaw, focusing my gaze up at his. “Don’t test me, Sav,” he says, and his breath is coming quick. “Because I don’t have the self-control.”
For a moment, we breathe each other’s air. His eyes are stormy in the dim bar light. My hand finds its way to the front of his shirt, gripping the soft cotton. I hear a distant thump—the music. Maybe my pulse.
Then he lets me go. Turns. Picks up my abandoned drink and swallows it in one go. Laughs a little to himself then rolls his shoulders as if he’s shrugging off the moment.
I can’t stay here. Not with the lazy smile he puts on, different from the one he was just wearing. This smile is like a billboard: an advertisement for something he clearly doesn’t feel.
“I should go home,” I say. No, that’s too indefinite. “I need to go home.” I point to the lights above us even if my head is, foronce, clear of a headache.And clouded with whatever that was.“You don’t need to come with me.” As if that wasn’t clear from my tone.
For a moment, Brayden looks like he’s going to argue. He could argue. He has every right to argue. I wish hewouldargue—not by yelling, but by putting his arm back around me and keeping me here.
