“Hello, husband.”
His eyes drop to my body for a split second. “Get out.”
“But I’m having so much fun.”
He takes a step closer and holds out his hand. “Now,” he says, voice dropping. Behind him, up on the terrace, mingling guests watch us. Many of them are smiling widely.
We have the audience we need.
I take Rafe’s hand and look at him like he’s my favorite person in the world. “The water’s nice.”
“Are you drunk?”
“Maybe. Aren’t you?”
He holds up his suit jacket and turns his head like he can’t look at me. “Put this on.”
“I’m not cold,” I protest, even though I am.
“I don’t care. That dress makes you look naked.”
“Is that why you’re looking away?” I take a step closer and lower my voice. “If you’re my husband, Rafe, you would have seen all of it already. Don’t look away. It’ssuspicious.”
He slides his gaze back to mine. The green of his eyes looks near black in the dimness of the night, and the sharp, handsome planes of his face are tight. “People are watching us.”
“I know. That’s the point.” I slide my arms into the sleeves of his suit jacket. It’s going to get wet, too. Delightful. “Your image matters a lot to you.”
“And yours matters surprisingly little, considering you work in PR.” His arm comes around my shoulders, and I steady myself against him as I step out of the fountain.
“It does. And I’mgreatat cultivating it. Fan-fucking-tastic.”
“Right. Until you sabotage it.” He looks down at my feet, and the frown deepens. “Your heels?”
“I left them at the table. They were hurting.”
“Of course they were.” He bends, and then he sweeps me up in his arms, carrying me against his chest. I have to hold on to his shoulders for support, and I catch Leelyn’s eyes over his shoulder.
She blows me a kiss.
Rafe doesn’t walk back up toward the others. He walks across the gravel instead, toward a door in the east wing.
He’s holding me.
We’ve only held hands briefly before, and now I’m in his arms, and he’s carrying me like it’s nothing to him. Annoying. I want to be a burden to him in every way possible.
His face is set in hard lines. He’s displeased, and that, at least, is a victory.
“You’re wrong,” I tell him.
“So you like to say. But about what in particular, this time?”
“I’m not sabotaging anything.” I look back at the terrace with the investors, colleagues and designers and catch more than a few looking at us. “Everyone is watching you carry your crazy new wife inside. I look like a woman newly inlove, and you look like a protective husband. It doesn’t make us look bad. It makes us look real.”
He shoulders open the side door to the villa, and we walk through a guest bedroom.
“That’s good PR,” I add, because I can’t resist. “If we want to sell being real, we can’t look too polished. There’s nothing for people to grip on to if the public image is too smooth, you know? We need some edges and some scars.”
He sets me down inside a large bathroom and pushes the door shut behind us.
