Page 41 of Holding Penalty

His brow darkens, and his nostrils flare. Just hearing my ex-fiancé’s name is enough to make my husband bristle. He grunts, which I take for a yes.

“No. He’s tried to contact me, but I’m ignoring him.”

“Good.”

The vehemence of his tone makes my lips twitch. “Decided what you want, yet?”

“Which ones did you bake?”

“All of them.”

“One of everything.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “Nash, there’s no way you’re eating that many pastries.”

He looks up, eyes locking with mine. “Don’t underestimate me, wifey.”

Warmth rolls through me. I lean against the counter, drawn into his space like a magnetic pull. “Is wifey what you’re settling on instead of snookums or sweet pea?”

He rolls his eyes, but his cheeks color when he smiles.

I need two bags to bag his order. “Are you really going to eat all these?”

He reaches into one of the bags and shoves a scone in his mouth. “Yes,” he answers, the word muffled by his chewing.

I shake my head, chuckling. How did I see no trace of this side of Nash for two whole years living next to him? Did he show this side to the woman he was engaged to? What happened between them?

There’s a sudden itch in my brain to know more. But the subject is probably a downer for him, so I don’t bring it up.

When I tell Nash his total, he gives me a hundred-dollar bill, tells me to keep the change, and then drops another hundred into the tip jar.

“You’ve already married me, Nash, you don’t have to show off to impress me.”

He rolls his eyes again, and this time stuffs a brownie in his mouth. “You’re ruining my diet.”

“You’re ruining your diet! Don’t blame this on me!”

“The dinner’s on Saturday. I’ll text you the details.”

As Nash leaves, he takes a bite of a muffin, and right before the door closes behind him, I hear him groan to himself, “Fuck, that’s good.”

It gets my brain racing with other scenarios where he’d groan those words, his voice a desperate rasp and his breath hot against the side of my face, or my neck, or into my hair.

I push the thoughts away and distract myself by getting ready to close as Nash’s truck pulls out of its parking space.

There’s one feeling I can’t distract myself from, though.

I’m looking forward to my date with my husband.

19

NASH

Iwish I were better at lying to myself. Then I could deny that I’ve been looking forward to tonight all week.

I pull my bowtie snug and give myself a look in the mirror. I’ve had a couple of occasions to wear tuxedos throughout my career, and it still feels a little bizarre each time. A suit is one thing, but I feel like I’m a kid playing dress-up when I put on a tux.

“What do you think, Cheesecake?” I ask the animal who once again wandered to my house this evening. “How do I look?”