I stop in front of him and take a slow sip before holding out my hand.
“I bought us a wedding present.”
His brows tug together, curiosity replacing the lazy heat in his eyes. He takes my hand, letting his thumb rest against my knuckles.
“Did you?”
“You said this place was mine too, right?” I say, tugging him up. “Well, I thought I’d add some character. Make it feel like a marital home instead of a bachelor pad.”
He follows without resistance.
When the bubble wrap falls away, neon pink detonates in the hallway.
The crowned squirrel stares back at us, and Bronx goes still. His head cocks sideways, and I can’t tell if he’s going to laugh or put his foot through it.
“Well, husband?” I say, my tone light. “Do you like it?”
“Let me guess…” He continues to study the recent addition to his art collection. “I’m the squirrel wearing a crown, right?”
I bat my lashes slowly. “I mean…yeah.”
“Because you’re thetough nut to crack?”
Now he gets it.
“Fuck… I’m flattered that you think so highly of me.” He turns and stares right into my eyes. “I’m not just your husband…I’m your king.”
When he puts it like that, I scowl and shake my head, and he laughs. A genuine rumble of laughter that has my skin flushing and my heart racing. It hits me low in the belly.
His gaze drills into me, and something shifts in his expression.
“You look different tonight,” he says, stepping closer.
“It’s the dress.”
“No,” he murmurs, gaze dragging over my face. “You look…almost happy.”
I open my mouth to argue and realize I don’t have a comeback ready.
The whole time I rode the elevator to the penthouse, my veins buzzed because I wanted to get a reaction out of Bronx. And when I walked inside, poured myself a drink and saw him sitting waiting for me, it didn’t feel like I was entering enemy territory.
“I’ll arrange for it to be hung in the bedroom above the headboard,” he announces.
I blink. “You’re actually going to hang it?”
“I don’t care what ugly fucking picture you want on the walls,” he says, reaching for my hand and pulling me into his chest. “As long as it makes you smile like that.”
My palm lands flat against his shirt and I can feel the steady thud of his heart under the cotton. Nothing like the erratic mess happening inside my chest.
“That smile,” he adds, voice low. “Is priceless.”
For a second, I forget to breathe. Heat coils low in mystomach and my veins run red-hot. Bronx has this way about him that lets me be me without questioning it. I don’t have to dull my edges. I don’t have to pretend to be softer or sweeter.
I don’t have to hide who I am.
And maybe that’s priceless too.
However, the smile fades from my face when I realize I actually enjoy having him as a husband, even if he’s playing me.
