My ability to ignore the keywords in product descriptions should be renowned.
Once my feet are freed, I carefully set the gorgeously comfortable shoes on the small stool in the room’s closet, then I hang my dress above it, right next to the tucked away ironing board. My hand hits the door to close it, and I pause, eyes locked on the now-lank fabric. I got married in that dress last night. Then, this morning, a mere two hours ago, I ran away from my husband. That is my dress. My wedding dress. To Iverson, my husband.
A shiver tingles my spine.
I wrap my arms around myself and turn to my suitcases, grabbing one at random and hoping it’s the one with my hurriedly packed pajamas. I fear I need comfort at this moment, and I fear even more that if I open the wrong suitcase, it might be the final straw for my sanity today. Blessedly, I fold it open to a stack of jammies. My sanity gets another five minutes, at least. I grab the coziest pair I can find plus a change of underwear before I rush to the bathroom to wash off this day. Goodbyedress, goodbye shoes, and goodbye body glitter and perfectly styled hair.
I make use of the mirror to help me tackle the problem of the deceptively simple updo I had one of Ivy’s weekly maids do for me. She’s a whiz with hair and has somehow managed to make me look effortlessly refined and carelessly messy in the best of both ways. Hair dangles artfully around my face as the back holds tight to the coils of braids within a knot at the base of my skull.
I learn quickly that the “somehow” of the maid’s handiwork is bobby pins. Lots and lots andlotsof bobby pins. I start counting at the fifth, and lose my count somewhere around the sixtieth.
Do I even have enough area on my head for this many bobby pins? How much of this style is my hair, and how much of it is little metal wiggly sticks?
By the time they’re all out, I figure the ratio is probably 1:4 with my hair being in the minority.
I run my fingers through the dark tresses, searching for any wayward pins I may have missed and undoing several braids. Satisfied my hair is free of all hindrances, I sigh with relief. I can shower now. I can stand under water hot enough to boil lobster and burn the stress of the day right off of my skin. I can scrub my head clear of my best friend’s manipulations, exfoliate the stars out of my skin, and emerge a new, cleaner,smarterwoman for it.
Maybe that’s a lot of pressure to put on hotel-provided soap and shampoo, but it holds up well enough. I scrub and lather and rinse until I’m raw, then I do it all over again. When I exit in a wave of steam, the woman in the mirror looks a little less shiny, a little more wary, and a whole lot more able to protect her heart from men who think they can demand it be laid in their palms.
My gut wrenches, but I pay it no mind. My heart lurches, too, and I give her no attention either.
My body may not understand, but my head knows what I’ve done. I’ve shored up our defenses for the war Iverson’s thrown us into—a war my heart would gladly lose if I left things up to her, then she’d be trampled over later for her blind romanticism. A heart doesn’t know the worth of respect and cares only for the depth of love. I’ll have to teach her that true love requires both.
I’ll have to teach Iverson Todric Swallow, too.
I flop onto a fluffy white bed in a perfectly serviceable hotel room, and I consider my options. Option number one: figure out what I’m going to do with my life. Option number two: take a nap.
Oh, gee, I wonder which one I’ll take.
I close my eyes.
Lessons can start tomorrow, and figuring out my life can wait until then, too. For now, I sleep, and I hope that my dreams are kinder to me than my reality.
Chapter Four
?
Iverson
My wife is the smartest woman alive, and it’sreallyinconvenient for me.
“What do you mean you can’t give me keys to the roomsIpaid for?” I growl at the young woman on the other side of the counter in this subpar hotel lobby the day after Maple left me. It’s blue, at least, but everything else about it sucks. Namely its employees, and particularly the trembling one in front of me.
Good, I think, watching her vibrate. Let her tremble, and let that trembling lead to giving me what I want. It’s worked thus far in my life, so why wouldn’t it now?
Unfortunately for the spoiled brat that is me, the woman’s supervisor shows up, dour-faced and squinty-eyed. She gently maneuvers her underling to the side and slightly behind her, creating a buffer between me and the girl.
I huff. What a ridiculous bout of drama. I’m not going to hurt the girl. Just scare her into doing what I want.
“Sir,” the new woman greets. “I’m going to have to ask you not to abuse my staff.”
My nose wrinkles. “Abuse” is taking it a bit far. Accost would be a more apt word, and since only one of those things is illegal, it’s the word I would much prefer to be used. Something tells me the women behind the counter won’t care much for my semantics, and, more importantly, that voicing the vocabulary lesson won’t get me any closer to my wife.
I try another route.
“Your girl here is useless,” I inform the slightly older woman. “I’m asking for keys to my rooms, and she doesn’t have a clue how to get them for me.”
The boss’ brows furrow. “Can I get a name, sir?”
