She tells me her fears, her hopes, the dreams she never spoke aloud to anyone.
And I tell her mine.All the dark corners.All the shit I used to guard like my life depended on it.
She’s my wife.
My heart.
My fucking miracle.
Which is why, when my label calls to tell me my new single hit number one—the first number one I’ve had in years—I don’t celebrate alone or on the phone with Trish.
I grab my keys.
Because there’s only one person I want to tell first.
I push open the door to Bosco’s Baked Goods and spot her instantly—my wife—on the customer side of the counter, radiant even in her flour-dusted apron, cheeks pink from the ovens.
And right there in front of her—again—is that same goddamn mosquito of a man.That fucking creepy teacher.
Justin.
He’s crowding her space, leaning in too close, talking like he has any right to her time or attention.
“Adrianna,” he says, voice dripping with condescension.“You can’t expect me to believe your marriage to that man is real.Come on.When are you going to come to your senses?”
Before she can answer, I do.
“Never.”
The word cracks across the bakery like thunder.
Justin jerks, paling.Adrianna’s eyes snap to mine—relief flooding her features, lighting her up from the inside out.
I don’t slow down as I walk toward her.
I just slide an arm around her curvy little hips and pull her flush to my chest.
She fits there—perfectly.
Like she was carved for me.
“I told you, Justin,” she says with a soft, smug grin that nearly knocks me out cold.“Nathan and I are doing just fine.”
I dip my head and kiss her—quick, claiming, enough to leave him with no goddamn doubt who she belongs with.
“Come on,” I murmur against her cheek.“I have something to show you.”
Her eyes widen, and she doesn’t spare that jerk another glance.
“Nathan?What’s going on?”
“Trust me.”
She wipes her hands on her apron, calls to Adele that she’ll be back later, and lets me lead her through the back door into the quiet of her private office space.
My heart is pounding.
For once, it’s not nerves.
