A muscle twitches in her cheek. It's the tiny movement that precedes mischief, usually of the verbal variety. "Well, Errand Boy, tell me, do you have a history of con artistry?"
"Hate to disappoint, Menace, but you've married a man as straitlaced as they come."
Cecily holds my gaze, eyes darkening, chest expanding with a slow exhale. "Probably not straitlaced at all times."
I could do it, right now. Scoop her up, the heat of her surprised gasp on my shoulder, and put her on her back.
I want to. Dying to, really.
But then a thought occurs to me, and I'd really like to dropkick it from existence.There won't be an annulment if we've consummated the marriage.I learned about it that first morning when we woke up married, when I was figuring out what's considered justifiable grounds for an annulment.
The seconds tick by. Three, four, five. The spell breaks. Cecily gets off the bed, pulling the binder from her bag. "I need to look this over," she says. She collapses into the leather chair in the corner, light from the low lamp beside her illuminating her face. She scratches a hand over her collarbone, something innocuous but somehow sexy.
I suppose when a man is starving, like I am, even tofu starts looking like a steak.
Forget the hot shower. Better make it a cold one.
When I'm finished in the shower, I find Cecily still seated in the chair. She snaps the binder closed when I walk out. Her gaze starts at my head, dragging down. "I was wondering if you'd pull one of those obvious man-moves where you only wear a toweland force me to look at your bare upper half while you rummage for clothing."
I run a hand through my wet hair. "Uh, no. I'm not interested in making you uncomfortable."
"Speaking of uncomfortable," she says, tossing the binder on the table. "We need to talk about what level of physical affection you're comfortable with."
"Because of what your sister said?"
"Because I read the binder!" Cecily gestures frenetically. "My grandma put an unreal amount of work into this trip. Hotel rooms, dude ranches, glamping tents? Booked. Excursions? Booked. Dining reservations for certain nights? Booked. Desert stargazing? Booked. All she wants from my family is three weeks of being in close proximity and not acting like we did tonight. And we are going to give that to her." Her pointer finger jabs her opposite flattened palm. "Grandma deserves it. She needs it. From here on out, this road trip must be ideal. Even if it means opening up old wounds with my parents and having to sit there with the pain. I can handle feeling hurt if it means bringing relief to my grandma before she's"—Cecily's voice catches—"gone." Tears flood her eyes, and my heart lurches. I want to take her in my arms, console her, dash away her tears.
Cecily extends a hand, like she's stopping me from something. "Let me guess, you expected me to cry tears of blood or some other heinous substance."
My mouth opens to object, but she forges ahead. "By coming on this trip you have gone above and beyond for my grandma. I didn't realize how entitled I was acting until now when I saw that binder and understood the amount of work it took to plan and execute a road trip like this."
Her lower lip trembles. Not a lot, but enough to pinch my heart. I wish I could take away what's upsetting her. I can't, of course. In fact, I can't do much of anything for her. The lackof control makes me uncomfortable. I'd love to be her knight in shining armor, slay her dragons. All I can do is be there for her.
"Do you want to tell me what's on the agenda for tomorrow?" I ask gently.
She sniffles. "It's a sunrise trail ride to a breakfast somewhere else on the property."
"An early wake up, then?"
She nods. "Looks like it. I texted my family. I told them I read the binder, and they better have, as well." Her gaze slides past me, to the bathroom. "I guess I'll get ready for bed."
I step aside, motioning. Cecily escapes, while I set up my phone charger, then settle into bed with my laptop to work until Cecily is ready for bed. Cecily's phone vibrates numerous times, likely her family responding to her text.
My fingers falter over the computer keys when I hear the snick of the bathroom lock. The opening of the door. Cecily steps tentatively from the bathroom wearing an oversized plain peach-colored T-shirt.
"Cute," I comment, "but I think I prefer you inNo Muff Too Tuff."
"Satan's Errand Boy forgot to deliver T-shirts to me today, so"—she pinches the fabric between two fingers and holds it away from her body—"I'll have to settle for this."
Sliding my laptop off my lap, I stand and cross the room to my open bag. "Here," I say, handing her my softest heather gray T-shirt, the one with the V-neck. "Satan's Errand Boy might be late, but he never no-shows."
Cecily laughs.Two in one day? I'll take it.
She twirls a circle in the air with a lone finger. "Turn around."
Dutifully, I pivot. Close my eyes against the soft swipe of fabric. She is so close, an arm's length away.
"Ok," she says, and I turn back around in time to see her throw her shucked shirt into her bag. She faces me, and I'm pretty sure everything in the world disappears.
