“Question. I have no idea how long I’ll be!”
“Fine.”
“Fine!”
He’s silent. Brooding. Eyebrows snapped together over stormy eyes, jaw clenched as he eyes the road in front of him.
“What a riveting conversation,” I mutter under my breath.
“What’s that?”
“Nothing.”
Another growl.
“Charming.” This I say louder. I’d rather take his anger than his brooding silence.
He doesn’t reply, and for some reason that makes me feel badly. I inhale and vow to behave myself. I don’t need to let his surly behavior bring out the worst in me.
We pull up to park. “Will they allow me in the back entrance?” he says, eying the back door suspiciously.
“Aye,” I say with an eye roll. “You’re my husband. Remember?”
He opens his mouth as if to protest, and then shakes his head. "Fucking mental."
I stifle a giggle. For some reason it strikes me as funny, but I don't allow him to see this. Instead, I dutifully take the arm he offers me, and we walk toward the back entrance.
I wonder if I've made a strategic error. I came here today, not because I need to see my boss, but because the newest shipment of Clan Chronicles paperbacks has arrived. I've hidden quite a lot, but I don't know how much more I can hide. So the theory is, if I had something to hide, I’d keep him away. Proudly flaunting evidence near him should get me off the hook.
Right?
And what will he do when he finds out, anyway?
Just before we go in, my head goes fuzzy and light, and I lose my footing. My toe catches on a sharp rock, and I lurch forward. The next thing I know, he’s holding me flush against him, lifting me straight back up again, both hands on my arms. He doesn’t let me go, though. He snakes an arm around my waist and holds me close.
We're so close, I can see the little flecks of color in his eyes, and a freckle just above his left eyebrow, the one with the scar.
"Watch where you're going," he chides, and it could be my over-sexed imagination, but his eyes look more bedroom “come hither” than angry.
The best defense is a good offense.
"As if you think I did that on purpose? Why are you always so grumpy, anyway?” I shake my head and push him away from me, but one does not detach Tate Cowen’s hands easily.
He huffs out a breath. “I just don't want to see you fall and crack the rest of your head open."
I shove him harder, and he lets me go.
Maybe it’s because I’m tired, or maybe it’s because I’ve been in pain and it’s been a really long few days. Maybe I’m more sensitive than usual, and more than a little afraid he’s going to find things out when he goes into the bookstore. But for some reason, this particular comment makes tears blur my vision. I look quickly away to hide them. I don’t want to show any sign of weakness. I try to blink them back, but not before a traitorous one falls onto my cheek. I swipe it away rapidly as we come to the back entrance to the bookstore.
He turns to me. “Fran, we should probably?—”
But his words freeze on his lips, and his tone softens. "Jesus, Fran, are you crying?"
I silently beg him, don’t go soft on me, Tate. Don’t. I can resist him when he’s angry, but this...
“Leave me alone.”
“Look at me.”
