“Guys,” I say, trying to settle the argument I can see brewing between them.
“Butt out, Little Sis,” Evan snarls.
“Don’t speak to her like that,” Sammy snaps.
“I’m not talking to her, I’m talking to my wife, who thought it would be a good idea to taunt me about her ex-fucking fiancé—who won’t even get voted as a Walmart employee of the month, let alone any political office, once I finish destroying his fucking life,” Evan says, his tone lethally calm.
Instead of arguing, Sammy turns to me and smiles. “No, I get it. This is hot,” she says, pushing slowly to her feet as Evan looks on in confusion. “I’m horny. Let’s go,” she tells him.
Clearly bewildered, Evan climbs to his feet, then pinches Sammy’s chin between his finger and thumb. “You drive me fucking crazy,” he snarls, his tone still low and rough but less aggressive than a minute earlier.
“I know,” Sammy agrees, smiling up at him. “Take me home and tell me all the ways you’re going to destroy Drew’s life while you fuck me until I’m screaming your name.”
Neither of them even glances in our direction as Evan helps Sammy waddle toward the front door. “Take the cart,” I call to their backs, chuckling when Evan flashes us a thumbs-up sign as they leave. “I think they might be crazier than us,” I say.
“Go get dressed, Little Bird. Put something expensive on,” Sebastian orders.
“What? What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” I ask, glancing down at my shorts and matching cropped tank top.
“We’re going to provoke Courtney, so you need to look like you’re reaping the benefits of being my wife.”
Groaning, I pout. “Really?”
Instead of speaking, he lifts me out of his lap, stands up, then lifts me into his arms and dumps me over his shoulder. Jogging up the stairs and into our closet, he ignores my grumbling, lowering me carefully onto the dresser.
“She knows you’re loaded. I don’t see why I need to dress like a Kardashian to prove it,” I whine.
Not answering, Sebastian starts to look through the rail of insanely expensive outfits that I rarely, if ever, wear. Most of them still have the tags on, because I much prefer comfort over style. Sebastian was raised wearing designer clothes like they came from Target. But despite knowing that I couldn’t care what brand my clothes are, he still insists on buying me couture outfits that usually sit untouched in the closet until Sammy forces me to wear them.
Sulking, I cross my arms over my chest and watch as he pulls out a top and shorts, then holds them out to me.
“Here, put these on,” he says.
Sighing, I jump down from the dresser and glance at the outfit he’s chosen. The top is a bandeau bralette of the softest fine knit with white straps and a blue-and-white China-style pattern that covers my chest. Dragging off my tank, I pull the top on and try not to coo over how soft it feels or how well it fits. He’s paired the top with jean shorts that are exactly the type I’d normally wear, only both the top and the shorts are Dior and probably cost thousands of dollars.
The shorts fit like a dream, hugging my ass in a way that makes it look a lot better than it actually is, and once I slip my feet into a pair of Jimmy Choo wedges, I look like about ten thousand dollars, because that’s probably how much this outfit cost.
Silently assessing me, Sebastian ponders me thoughtfully for a moment, then moves to a section of our closet that I avoid completely unless I absolutely have to. Apart from my wedding and engagement rings, I don’t wear any other jewelry. I’m already terrified of losing my rings, so I refuse to wear anything else that could potentially fall off or get broken.
Placing his finger onto the biometric lock, Sebastian opens the fireproof jewelry drawers he insisted our interior designer build into the closet and lifts out a chunky gold necklace. The chain is made up of long, thick links that seem to flow together effortlessly. Striding over to me, he fastens it around my neck, then turns me to face the mirror.
“What do you think?”
“How much is this necklace worth?” I ask, worrying my bottom lip with my teeth.
“That’s not important. Do you like it?”
“It’s beautiful, but?—”
Interrupting me, Sebastian dips his head and bites my shoulder, hard enough to leave a bruise but not enough to break the skin.
“Oww,” I shriek.
“Who cares how much the necklace cost? It looks beautiful on you. You look beautiful.”
“Do you prefer me head to toe in couture clothes?” I ask cautiously, unsure if I actually want to know the answer.
“I like you best wearing nothing at all. Any clothes you wear are just things to stop other people from looking at you.”
