I’d been waiting for Grant to return for what felt like an eternity when I’d gotten sidetracked. Instead of being face down, ass up, waiting for him, I was roaming around his massive bedroom, looking for anything out of place. I paused at the bedside table and plucked the picture frame of us on our wedding day from the table. Happy wasn’t enough to describe how we felt.
Euphoric… yeah… that’s it.
We were married in one of the many chapels that dotted the Las Vegas strip. I wore a white, fitted midi dress with a bustier-inspired bodice, molded cups, and embellished trim. I blushed furiously when I finally met my husband-to-be at the altar. Grant had never looked at me like that—like he was suspended in time, and his world had tilted on its axis.
“W-w-wow, Kiyah. You look… you look… you look—”
“Yeah, you look… you look… you look, too. Let’s get this show on the road, Grant. I’m ready to be Mrs. Kiyah Baker.”
And I was.
I poked fun at him a little for wearing one of his impressive suits that made him look like he stepped right out of a designer cologne commercial. To which he said, “I’m only getting married once, and I want to do it right the first and last time.”
We stumbled through our vows, eager to get to the good part where the officiant declared us Mr. and Mrs. Baker. I closed my eyes and sighed when I remembered the kiss we shared after we were pronounced husband and wife. Grant held me possessively to his body—not allowing a millimeter of space between us and kissed me as if we were the only two in the building—hell, in the entire universe.
That’s how he always made me feel—like it was him and me against the world.
“What are you smiling for?”
“Shit,” I whispered when I dropped the frame to the floor. It clattered loudly, and I sucked my teeth when a large splinter appeared in the glass, effectively separating our smiling faces down the middle.
If that’s not an omen, I don’t know what is.
“I’m sorry,” I apologized, replacing the frame on his nightstand. He strolled over and picked up the frame. His bloodshot eyes flicked over the picture briefly before he opened the top drawer and shut the picture away. The drawer closed softly, but to me, it slammed as loudly as my heart was thudding against my chest.
Why did that feel so… finite?
“What were you smiling for?” he repeated.
“I was thinking about how you hated me when we first met.”
Grant snorted. “I didn’t hate you, and you know it.”
“I know,” I agreed, laughing. “I remember jumping on the trampoline together for the first time. You were so protective, even back then. You’re jumping too high, Kiyah. Be careful, Kiyah. It’s time to take a break, Kiyah.”
“To which you replied, ‘It’s okay. I ride motorcycles.’ I was so fucking jealous of you,” he admitted.
“I remember when you cried the first time Mom took you out. She had to pull over and call Dad to come and pick you up,” I teased. The corner of his mouth twitched upward from the fond memory.
“I believe you’re mistaken,” he insisted.
Sure, Grant. Anything you say.
“I’ll sign it.”
“You’ll do what?” I asked.
“I’ll sign the divorce papers, but certain conditions must be met.”
“What do you want?” I asked weakly, unsure what curveball he’d throw my way.
“We’ll spend the rest of the week getting each other out of our system, meaning you’ll stay here in our home.”
“I can’t stay here every night without Mom and Dad getting suspicious,” I protested.
“I don’t give a shit. Make something up—you’re good at that.”
I smiled up at him and pretended his words didn’t cut me like a knife. That was the thing about Grant; if you hurt him, he’d annihilate you, and he didn’t discriminate.
