“Whatever you say, wife.”
Chapter Seven
GRIFFIN
When Juliette committed, she committed. And she was committed to being forthright for Weston. So she refused to sleep next to me, but she also refused to sleep in her own tent, right next to mine. At five-thirty a.m., we sat cross-legged, knee to knee, shuffling Phase 10 cards between us.
When she swayed slightly, I nudged my knee against hers. “It’s okay to go to bed. We stayed up pretty much the entire night.”
“No.” She shook her head. “I only get you for a few more hours. I can sleep once you drop me at my apartment.”
She laid down the phase—seven cards of one color—an adorable smirk tugging at her mouth. I stared at the ceiling of the tent. She threw her fists in the air, her shirt lifting just enough to reveal a sliver of stomach—and her belly button.
I couldn’t resist. I squeezed her sides. Then we were in a full-fledged tickle fight. I learned that Juliette became violent when tickled. She shrieked, probably waking half the campground, flailed uncontrollably, and nearly kicked me in my manhood. Naturally, that meant taking her down to the sleeping bag and pinning her wrists above her head.
“Careful, woman,” I said, low and husky, my face close to hers. “Or there won’t be a Weston.”
She nibbled her bottom lip. “We definitely wouldn’t want that.”
We inhaled and exhaled as one, the space between us shrinking with every breath.
I traced a finger over her forehead. “How can I be this comfortable with someone so quickly?”
“I’ve been asking myself the same thing.” Her hands slipped under the back of my T-shirt and her fingernails skimmed up my spine. “Promise we won’t hurt each other,” she whispered.
Huh?
I pushed up onto my elbows. “Why would we hurt each other?”
“Because that’s what couples do. Things start off good—great even—then it turns ugly. Except on TV or in the movies.”
Was that how her parents’ marriage was?
I brushed a lock of hair off her forehead. “Not the couples I know.”
“You know a couple who are still happy years later?” she asked, a small catch in her voice. “Like truly?”
“Lots of them. My parents, grandparents, all my aunts and uncles, Anna and Blue.” Over the course of the night, I’d told her about everyone in my family. She already had them memorized.
Her head cocked, expression skeptical. “They don’t just put up a good front and fight behind closed doors?”
“Definitely not. They’re crazy about each other.” I snorted. “So much flirting happens at a Dupree family gathering. Winking, butt grabs, bedroom eyes, and promises of later.”
“Butt grabs?” She cackled.
Her laugh was infectious. “An alarming amount of butt-grabbing. It’s so embarrassing for the rest of us.”
“When we get married,” she said, her whole face lighting up. “Will we be butt-grabbers?”
“Absolutely. We’ll be banned from school events. PTA moms will start petitions. Weston will need years of therapy.”
“Tell me how much they love each other. Who loves each other the most?”
“My parents for sure. Though every aunt and uncle I have would riot if they heard me say that. They all swear theirs is the greatest love story of the family. But my dad would fight an army for my mom, blindfolded, one arm tied behind his back—and he’d win.” Her eyes glowed at that. “Growing up, if we ever backtalked Mom, we’d better hide before Dad got home because we were going to wish we’d never been born.” Jules giggled while I fought off a PTSD reaction just thinking about the wrath of Silas Dupree when you disrespectedhis wife. “And they still make out like a bunch of teenagers. All the time. We’re constantly telling them to take it to the bedroom. Which they gladly do. Dad chases her down the hall, growls, and locks the door with so much gusto.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
