“Thank you for such generous praise of my beautiful, perfect wife,” I said clearly, but not warmly, and then I kissed her.
It wasn’t a brush of our lips or a polite press meant for cameras and gossip columns. I kissed her fully and decisively, like I meant it, because I did. Her breath caught, the sound sharp and audible against my mouth, but then she softened, responding as her hands curled into the front of my jacket.
As soon as her tongue tangled with mine, the room faded. The candlelight, the murmurs, and the cheering fell away until there was only her. The soft warmth of her pressed up against me. The way she tilted her head like she already knew how this worked between us.
I kissed her like I was laying public claim, not out of possession, but promise. She tasted like champagne, sweet and intoxicating, and for a split second I felt drunk on it, on her,and on the way her mouth fit against mine like we’d both been waiting.
Shit, I wanted more. So much more. To deepen it or to forget where we were, but I forced myself to pull back before I lost control completely. So instead, I ended it with a softer peck to her lips, lingering just long enough to feel her follow me. Then I drew away.
The room came rushing back in, the sounds of applause, low whistles, and oohs and ahhs suddenly roaring louder than my heart in my ears. I shot them another trademark Westwood smile, this one all charm and composure—like I hadn’t just upended my own equilibrium—then slid my arm around her waist, guiding her out of the candlelit ballroom.
“I’ve had enough of the public for one night,” I murmured as we walked away from the whispered commentary, prying eyes, and whatever perceptions people had of us right now. “Are you ready to get out of here?”
She shot me a small, relieved smile. “So ready.”
It was nearly midnight when I helped her into her coat, my fingers lingering at her shoulders a fraction longer than necessary. She didn’t say a word as we walked out into the cold night, climbed back into the car, and left that awful fucking embarrassment behind.
As the skyline shifted from hazy glow to towering buildings, I leaned forward and spoke to the driver. “Take us home.”
Jane inhaled slowly beside me. “You can just take me to my house.”
I leaned back and finally looked at her, feeling like I was getting my first glimpse of the girl behind the mask. Her eyes were still bright from the kiss, her lips parted like she hadn’t quite caught up to what had happened yet.
“No,” I said, quietly but pointedly. “We’re going home, Jane. To my place. Together.”
CHAPTER 17
JANE
Ididn’t say it out loud, but I knew exactly why I hadn’t protested when Alex had effectively kidnapped me tonight. I knew why I hadn’t pushed back when he’d walked me into his apartment, pressed a loose, worn-in T-shirt from his college days and a pair of sweatpants into my hands, and left me standing in his bedroom to change out of my gown like it was the most natural thing in the world.
I also knew why my chest had tightened when he’d left to give me privacy, only returning to change once I’d left the room. Now, I was curled on one side of his impossibly expensive couch in his sunken living room overlooking the lake, my legs tucked beneath me, a heavy glass of wine that was already halfway gone in my hand.
Across from me, Alex mirrored my posture. His long, sweatpants-clad legs stretched out on the coffee table and a tumbler of scotch rested loosely in his fingers. I’d watched him pour it. It was the unaffordable kind, the type people drank to feel, not to forget.
City lights glittered below us and the lake beyond that, dark and endless except for the silvery reflection of the moon on the swells. Willingly lulled into feeling like this was real, like wehad some kind of connection that actually meant something, I looked over at him and came straight out with the question that had been burning right at the front of my brain ever since it’d happened.
“Why did you kiss me?” I asked.
Alex didn’t hesitate. He tilted his glass back, swallowed, and gave me a simple answer. “Because you’re my wife.”
That was it. No qualifiers. No apology. Just a fact. But something about that fact made it feel like the air was suddenly crackling between us.
The tension wasn’t entirely sexual but it was still charged. Humming. From my side, at least, there was a definite undercurrent of desire to it. I couldn’t deny that anymore. My husband was objectively gorgeous, but more than that, he was sexy, and the way he’d stepped up for me tonight like no one ever had definitely hadn’t been a turn-off.
But at the same time, Alex wasn’t looking at me right now like he wanted to devour me. Regrettably, but absolutely for the better, his expression was one of steely understanding. I saw it plainly in his eyes when he stood, not asking if I wanted more but coming back with the bottle of wine and the scotch, topping both of us off.
Deliberate. Equal.
We were getting drunk. Together. Loosening up as a couple after I’d listened to my family get dragged through polite laughter and clinking glasses. Usually, I was the one doing the saving, but tonight, he’d swept in like a knight in shining armor and the fact that he had, without asking and without hesitation, had hit me right in the heart.
“Are you doing okay?” he asked as he sat back down. “You’re suddenly really quiet.”
I stared back at him, looking deep into those devastating eyes, and then, I did something I’d never done before. I told him everything.
“I didn’t grow up the way people think,” I said, staring into my glass. “Not really. I’ve told you this part before, but my parents were… absent. Physically there sometimes, sure, but emotionally checked out. What I didn’t tell you was that my father had a long-standing affair. It lasted for years. Everyone knew. I’m sure even my mother did.”
Alex didn’t interrupt, just watching me with his jaw set and his attention absolute.
