He didn’t chase me.
I wasn’t sure if I was more relieved or upset by that as I rode the elevator up to my floor, kicked off my shoes, and paced my room.
I not only didn’t manage to convince him that I wasn’t a fit for his world, I’d let him enjoy the fact that I was the kind of woman who would go down on him in the backseat of his SUV.
Brilliant work on my part.
I had a feeling that he wasn’t going to give me the same break he had over the past week. Not after he got a taste of having me on his arm. And on my knees.
“Ugh,” I grumbled, throwing my head back as I started tugging at my stupid dress, pulling until it was pooling at my feet. Then I peeled off the fashion tape all down my midsection.
Finished, I took myself into the bathroom, attempting to scrub the feel and scent of Harrison off of me as I tried to figure out what my next move might be—before just accepting weeks or months before my freedom.
It wasn’t until I was knotting my robe and glancing around the bathroom that an idea surfaced.
Because there, spread across the entire hotel bathroom, a place I’d only been staying in for a few days, was the reason many of my cousins barely tolerated me crashing at their places.
My mess.
My makeup was all over the place. My blush had broken in transit, and a smattering of it was all over the marble. I’d forgotten to stick my mascara wand all the way into the tube, so a swipe of it was in the sink where it had fallen.
Then there were two hairbrushes, mousse, dry shampoo, face wash, serums, lotion, and eight—yes, eight—hair ties.
On the floor were the past two outfits I’d worn in a pile.
I was disordered, chaotic, and disorganized. I didn’t usually see a reason to put away an item I was only going to use again in a few hours. I didn’towna hamper, so it rarely occurred to me to use one when it was available. I left trails wherever I went.
For fellow messy people, it was no big deal.
For the ones who liked a well-ordered home? Hell. Absolute hell.
And who had a very neat home?
My husband.
If he was okay with me not fitting in with his gala friends because it was such a small part of his life, maybe showing him how I was incompatible with his everyday life would work.
Of course, it was going to mean actually being in his space. And that came with all its own issues. Especially since we seemed incapable of keeping our damn hands off each other.
But sharing his space didn’t necessarily mean sharing his bed.
There were several guest rooms I could occupy.
Then just… spread out from there.
I had a key to the elevator. And the security system recognized me.
I could get in while he was at work and get busy creating a mess. Mugs in the sink. Hair ties everywhere. Wet bras hanging in the shower. Clothing trails.
Maybe at first he would be charmed by it because it meant I was giving in, I was in his space, he was getting what he thought he wanted.
But it wouldn’t take long before he got sick of tripping over my shoes, of me eating all his leftovers, of me forgetting to refill the hand soap or paper towels.
It was sure to grate on him slowly over time. Until he finally got fed up, realized he couldn’t live with me forever after, and signed the damn papers.
If I was going to do this, though, I needed more than just my one little duffle bag of stuff.
It was time to take a trip back home, load up on all the junk I’d left at my parents’ house or in a storage unit, and bring it to my new married home.
