Temporary.That's what I agreed to, and I have to remember it, even if temporary was never my plan. I drag my hand down my face and lean back, but every stolen moment, every time she looks at me like maybe there's something more building between us, I fall deeper. If I can't earn her heart, if she walks away when this is over... The certainty hits like a fist: losing her might actually break me.
The water turns on in the bathroom, and my eyes flash open.Get it together. You just have to earn her.Somehow, I have to make her see that what we have is worth keeping. That this could never be temporary.
By six-thirty, we've both freshened up. I went through my emails, did some research on solar wells, and rodeo breeding vs fighting. Bulls are aggressive by nature. If anything, rodeo breeding makes them more docile as they become somewhat accustomed to human interaction, opposed to fighting bullswhich are raised with minimal human interaction. All that matters is that at their core, both want bulls with energy, stamina, and strength.
"Ready?" she asks from the doorway, her tone clipped and businesslike.
Asha emerges from the bathroom in a simple sundress that Dar had sent up for her. I don't like the thought of another man dressing my woman for dinner—a fact I'm sure she saw written all over my face the second a maid brought it to the room. I didn't like it, therefore she did.
We make it halfway down the stairs before she breaks the silence. "Is the dress okay?"
Of course she's worried about the dress. About appearances. About playing her part perfectly for the cameras, for Dar and Mateo—for everyone but me. At the bottom of the steps, I stop and turn to face her, letting my eyes travel over every exposed inch deliberately, slowly, taking my time in a way I know will get under her skin.
She shifts her weight, that familiar fire sparking in her eyes. "Oh, come on, you saw it when I walked out of the bathroom, and you didn't say anything."
"Sweetheart," I draw out, letting the endearment drip with just enough edge to remind her how much she hates when I use it, "I wasn't looking at the dress. I was looking at you."
She tenses, and for a second, that careful mask slips. Then her chin tilts up, defiant. "Is that supposed to be a compliment? Because it sounds like you were ignoring my question."
"You want me to comment on the dress?" I step closer, crowding her space just enough to make her bristle. "Fine. It's blue. It fits. Happy?"
"You're an ass," she mutters, but there's color rising in her cheeks now, and we both know it's not from anger.
"And you're stalling." I lean in, lowering my voice. "What are you really asking me?"
Her eyes flash. "I'm asking if I look appropriate for a business dinner, not fishing for your approval."
"Right. Because God forbid you'd actually care what I think."
"Why would I?" she shoots back, but her fingers tighten on my arm, betraying her. "You've made your feelings about me perfectly clear over the years."
"My feelings?" I stare at her. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"You know exactly what it means." There's old hurt in her voice now, buried under the anger. "I'm good enough to be your temporary wife, but I was never good enough to be?—"
"To be what?" I press, but she's already shutting down.
"I'm not—" She cuts herself off, jaw clenched, and looks away. "Forget it. Let's just get through this dinner."
Men's loafers click across the terracotta floors. "There you are," Mateo says, coming down the hall. "I thought maybe you got lost, the two of you."
Asha smiles, "No, I just took a little longer changing. The dress Dar sent up for me is beautiful."
"No, Mrs. Asha, it's the woman who makes the dress beautiful," he says before extending his arm. "Come, have a drink," he says, motioning for us to follow him.
I let him get a few steps ahead before tightening my hold on my wife. "This conversation isn't over."
She doesn't give me her face, and even from the side, I can tell it wouldn't matter. It gives nothing away. We turn the corner, and the expansive living room comes into view. High ceilings crossed by exposed beams and windows that frame the property. A bar cart sits in the corner, and Mateo is there, pouring something amber into glasses. Two other men stand nearby—ranch hands, by the look of them.
"Whiskey okay? It's local, from a distillery about forty miles south," Mateo asks, handing each of us a glass.
"Perfect," I say. "Will Dar be joining us for drinks?"
"Yes," he says, "Will you excuse me for a moment?” His eyes flash over to someone else entering the room.
"How many people are coming to dinner?" Asha asks, taking a look around.
"I'm not sure," I say, flexing my left hand, the covering on my finger a little stiff.
