Confusion . . .
Those scars on his back, they were brutal—horrifying—and I didn’t want to make him feel bad, but my shocked gasp popped out of me before I could stop myself. I’ve never seen such angry, purple scars before. And from fishing line? What happened on that boat? Is that why he’s no longer there?
Does it have anything to do with why I’m here with him?
I wish he’d just talk to me. It’s so infuriating.
And what’s even more infuriating is that I woke up this morning without getting much sleep and completely unsatisfied but turned on thanks to him.
For me, the bed is perfectly fine, but put his broad body in it, and it felt like we were sharing a twin. I’m glad I slept naked or else I’d have been way too hot with his body heat pouring under the covers.
And of course, he woke up early, probably to work out or something. Not sure there’s any equipment around here, so he’s probably out on the beach lifting rocks. Scooping sand for bicep curls, possibly whipping seaweed up and down like ropes. Who knows.
When I got out of bed, I pulled on one of his shirts, then stared out at the water for a while, contemplating how I want to handle the situation with him moving forward. I’ll tell you right now, I’m still clueless. I don’t know where to go from here. Clearly, Keller doesn’t want to talk to me about anything. He thinks I’m some floozy who can set aside the love we had and go for someone else. He thinks the worst of me.
And I think the worst of him.Looks like he did us both a favor by walking away from our marriage. Lust, we understand. Trust, we clearly don’t.
Shaking my head, I move into the main part of the house where a note has been left on the counter. I walk up to it and read his slanted handwriting. At least this note isn’t life-altering.
Out on a walk. There are croissants in the pantry. Eat one. Don’t go anywhere.
Still freaking demanding even when he’s not here.
But thanks to my lack of dinner last night, I’m starving, so I go to the pantry and spot the croissants in a Tupperware bin. I pick one up, then rummage around for a plate. I look in the fridge for any jam, and lo and behold, there is some.
That’s infuriating.
Do you know why that’s infuriating? Because he knows how much I like croissants, and he knows how much I like . . . yup, strawberry jam on them. See, that’s what’s going to freaking break me. Him making dinner last night, taking care of the house, keeping it safe, buying me freaking strawberry jam. Doing all the little things that matter when, in reality, a much bigger problem hangs over us.
I reluctantly put the jam on my croissant, grab some coffee that he made a pot of and kept on a warmer—because he knows I need some coffee in the morning, damn him—and then move out to the back of the house and take a seat at the dining room table outside.
It’s not that warm out yet, probably high fifties, but compared to what I was living in a day or so ago, it feels like a tropical vacation. And I have to admit even though he kidnapped me, scaring the living hell out of me in my own bedroom, where he took me isn’t so bad. It’s actually quite gorgeous here.
Too bad I can’t enjoy it with him like we were supposed to on our honeymoon.
Too bad we have so much bad blood between us that while we’re here, for however long, we won’t be able to truly enjoy it.
Well, fuck that.
If he won’t tell me why we’re here, at least I can ignore him and enjoy myself.
Like . . . take a dip in the water naked.
Lie on the beach . . . naked.
Walk around the house . . . naked.
Do all the naked things, because there is never a time when I can do that, not in the palace with staff constantly popping in and out. If it drives Keller crazy at the same time, seeing me naked, then it’s a win for me.
From the corner of my eye, I see movement, and for a heart-stopping moment, I think it’s an intruder, but then Keller comes into view, wearing low-hanging shorts that dip past the indented V in his hips. His chest glistens with a sheen of sweat, the light bouncing off every sinew of muscle wrapping around his bones, and there’s more than I remember. It’s almost as if he’s lost every ounce of body fat, leaving him as skin and muscle. His body is insane. My eyes travel up to his now trimmed beard, only scruff lines his jaw, and he’s fastened some sort of hairband that pushes his hair out of his face. It’s ridiculous for a man to wear a hairband the way that he is, but Jesus Christ, it makes my mouth water. He looks so incredibly hot that I squeeze my thighs together, reminding myself that we’re mad at him.
He hurt you.
He damaged you.
He left you.
Remind yourself that every time you catch him looking so delicious that you would do anything to lay your tongue across his stacked eight-pack.
