A couple from Chiana.Dozens from my family and security.
There are text messages, too.Including this morning from my brother, telling me he was in Houston.
I glance at Moretti again, and I look at the bruise that’s formed on his hand.
“At lunch,” he says again, reading my expression perfectly.“I’ll answer everything then.”
But instead of waiting, I reply to my brother’s message, asking what happened.
Surprising me again, Moretti doesn’t ask to see who I texted or what I said.
But that doesn’t mean he hasn’t listened to each message and read every single word on the phone.
His back shifts as he pulls the denim over his hips.For a moment I watch him, the quiet confidence in every movement making it impossible to forget exactly who—and what—he is.
My husband.
The word still feels foreign—and unwanted.
He fastens the button, drags the zipper up, and then reaches for a charcoal henley folded neatly on a shelf.
The soft fabric stretches across his chest as he pulls it over his head.Then he casually pushes the sleeves up his forearms once they settle into place.
After putting on socks and boots, he reaches for the holster.
The motion is so practiced it’s almost invisible—gun secured just behind his hip, concealed in its holster, beneath the fabric of his shirt, the shape of it disappearing.
Violence, neatly concealed.
I shake my head to break myself out of my trance.
Instead, I focus on the rack holding sundresses.
Now that he’s dressed, I expect him to walk out of the closet, but he doesn’t.
For the first time ever, I feel intimacy between us.He’s behaving like someone in a real relationship might.And I’m not sure I like it.“You could give me some privacy.”
He rests a shoulder against the doorjamb again.“I could.”
“But you’re not going to?”Infuriating man.
“No.”His answer is easy and final.“I enjoy looking at my wife.”
Turning my back to him, I pull panties and a bra from a drawer.Then I slide the robe from my shoulders.
Pretending that he’s not there, that my cheeks aren’t burning from embarrassment, I slip into the lingerie and reach for a pale sundress that feels light enough for the Texas heat.
The fabric falls easily over my head, but the zipper catches halfway down my back.
I try once, then twice.But the metal teeth refuse to cooperate.
Moretti pushes himself upright and takes two steps toward me.“Hold still.”
His voice is low, close enough that I feel the warmth of it brush my neck.
I freeze as his fingers find the zipper, the brief contact of his knuckles against my spine sending a thin ripple of awareness through me before he pulls the fabric smoothly into place.
God, I wish I didn’t react to him the way I do.
