Fine. I press the gas, make it to the driveway up front, tires rubbing on the pavement as I brake and get out of the car, coming around it only to see she’s stepped out already. I stare at the car door I didn’t open for her and note how she slams it. Fine. It’s your car, dearest. Slam that shit all you like.
When I see her move, I practically jog to the front door and open that one for her, a sly smirk on my face.
She’s trying to drag the suitcase out of the Mustang.
Oh, fuck me and our front door. Forgot the suitcase. “I got it,” I say as I jog back to the car, but she’s already yanking it out. Because it’s heavy and she can’t manage it on the way to the pavement, the suitcase’s wheels slide down the car’s bumper, leaving skid marks on the paint before slamming on her foot.
She yelps and skips. Bending her leg and holding her foot, she leans on the suitcase.
“I said I got it.”
“I heard you.”
“You heard me but didn’t listen. I need you to listen.”
She drops her hurt foot and steps on it. It doesn’t seem damaged, but there’s a small swelling at the top.
“There’s ice in the house. I’ll get the suitcase.”
She makes for the handle, and I grab her wrist. She tugs, and I’m not letting go, and it’s like this weird tug-of-war I’m gonna win anyway, so I’m unsure why she’s doing it. She balls her hand into a fist and hits my chest, and I let go of her wrist and stand there as she beats my chest, just waiting for the moment she either tries to knee me in the balls or slap me, neither of which I’m gonna take.
It doesn’t come. It doesn’t because I wrap my hands around her shoulders and lock her in so she can’t move, wait her out a little so she calms down. I scan the property, seeing my men have all turned their backs and are walking away, not wanting to witness our drama, and frankly, I hate drama, and I bit off more than I can chew when I brought home a wife who doesn’t want me. But chew through it I will.
I kiss the top of her head and remove the scarf, then wrap it around her neck instead.
She turns up her face. I’d like to make out with her right now. I really would. She’s real pretty, with plush lips and hazel eyes that contrast with her dark skin. She smells lovely. A soft fragrance just enough to entice a man but not enough to suffocate the senses. Delicate. It suits her.
“Rogue,” she says.
What the fuck? It’s like I’m onJeopardy, and only one thing comes to my mind. “Shark. A dangerous solitary animal.”
She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “The magazine.”
I don’t know what she’s saying, but we’re having a conversation. Woohoo! It was the hug, or actually a wrestling maneuver I executed, but I’m gonna call it a hug. I’m gonna hug her all the time. I got this shit. “Let me show you inside.”
She nods and walks around me and goes inside the house. I follow her, remembering those long legs that are now hidden under the ugly dress. While I dressed up, she dressed down, perhaps hoping I’d back off. Not a chance. I didn’t fall for the fucking dress or the body. I fell for the smile.
4
My wife stands in the small space people call the fancy name, foyer. There’s still boxes there that need to go to the garage, but the fuckers dropped them in the wrong place, and I never got around to telling anyone to move them. I leave the suitcase against the wall and quietly close the door.
She turns and props her hands on her hips, eyes narrowing. Something’s coming, and I brace for impact.
“Have you been stalking me?”
Not yet, but I will be now. “Hm?”
“How long have you watched me? Just tell me. It doesn’t matter right now, but I want to know.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I thought we had a breakthrough bonding moment outside, but I was mistaken.
She narrows her eyes further. “So you happened to guess what my dream home looks like?”
I’m gonna kill Ivana. I can’t say another woman decorated this entire house, even if it’s pretty clear now those rustic stylish things weren’t Ivana’s taste or my taste, they were my wife’s taste and I didn’t fucking know. What to say, what to say… “It is possible our tastes match, you know.”
“It is, Russian, but unlikely that you would decorate your entire house with furniture from the company I started only last year and under the radar of my father. I remember this massive order put in in a single night where I had seven days to line up all the suppliers and have them ship it… What’s the address here?”
I tell her.
