The words hit something volatile in his chest. The answer rose instantly.
I forbid it.
He held it behind his teeth, barely.
“You’re drawing a distinction this country doesn’t recognize.” He stepped into her space, one hand braced on the stone on either side of her hips. Close enough for his body to remember exactly what it had been denied. “You know better than that, little wife.”
Her entire body went rigid. “So do you,large husband.”
The urge arrived fully formed. Pick her up. Carry her back inside. End the argument with his body instead of his mouth.
It would work. He nearly did it.
Instead, Rafael reached into his pocket.
Bea followed the movement. Her eyes widened. Then promptly narrowed.
Her forefinger poked directly into his sternum. “Oh my—Rafael Griffin if you try to invoke a Christmas coupon to override my argument, you’re sleeping in the pool house for a month.”
“This voucher book was legally issued.” He flipped to the page.
One Free Pass to Win an Argument
“Don’t,” she growled.
Rafael slowly looked up. Bea met his gaze without flinching. The terrace went quiet around them except for the rustle of trees and the thunder of the tide. Neither of them moved.
He didn’t need the damn voucher.
Bea wasn’t pleading. She wasn’t even arguing anymore. She was just watching him, waiting to see how he’d use the power in his hands.
“This isn’t your fight,” Rafael muttered. “Fox’s resentment is against the Griffins. You don’t need to get into the ring.”
Her plan was reckless, which she never was. Public, which she avoided like the plague.
It would also work. He knew it. And so did she. One of the occupational hazards of marrying a very clever woman.
Then she said the one thing he couldn’t argue with: “I’m a Griffin, too.”
The interview was happening.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Of all the things involved in publicly humiliating a man on the internet, the makeup was the strangest.
Bea held herself motionless while a stranger brushed shimmer across her cheekbones. Studio lights burned overhead, turning the small prep room into a furnace. Which was just fine with her because she got cold when she was nervous.
“Almost done,” the woman said, stepping back to examine her work.
Bea’s knee bounced hard enough to shake the chair. Above the waist, she looked composed. Below it she was pure fight-or-flight. She studied her reflection.
This is fine. You’re fine.
Not entirely true, but it steadied her long enough to remember what Rafael had drilled into her: the audience aligns with certainty.
The audience.
They were expecting ten thousand. More people than had ever watched her do anything. Ever.
