Page 117 of Sweet Surrender

“Oh, it’s like that now, is it?” His voice drops low, teasing, and before I can dodge, he flicks some of the softer icing down the front of my shirt in a pattern that would make Jackson Pollock proud.

The next few minutes are pure chaos—flour flying, icing smeared across skin, laughter filling the kitchen as we chase each other around the island. I manage to wrestle a spatula from him, but not before he pulls me against him, both of us breathless, sticky, and covered in sugar.

I look up at him, my pulse hammering. His eyes are dark, his breath warm against my cheek. “You’ve got icing,” he murmurs, his thumb tracing over my bottom lip.

And then he licks it off.

My breath catches. The air between us shifts, laughter fading into something heavier, hotter. His hands settle on my waist, fingers teasing the hem of my shirt.

But just as the moment tilts into something inevitable, I slip in the spilled flour, yelping as I take him down with me.

We collapse onto the floor, laughing as we land, tangled together in a heap, completely sugar-dusted. Jase rolls onto his back, arms sprawled out, staring at the ceiling. “Well, that escalated quickly.”

I giggle, shifting so my head rests against his chest. “You started it.”

He hums, tracing lazy circles on my arm. “And I’d do it again.”

The warmth of his touch comforts me, and for a moment, I forget about everything else. The ticking clock on our arrangement. The way this is supposed to end.

The way I’ve fallen head over heels for him.

Instead, I wonder, and not for the first time . . . what would it be like to stay married to him?

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

Gizmo

The park is quiet when I get there, the early morning sun barely stretching over the tops of the trees. Nathaniel is already waiting on a bench, his hands folded, looking every bit the polished lawyer he is. It still feels strange seeing him this way—buttoned-up, controlled—when I remember the scrappy kid who used to chase me through the neighborhood.

He stands as I approach, offering a nod. “Jase.”

“Nate.” I use the name he hates, still very much like the little brother I am. After what I’ve gone through, is there any question that I continue to remind him of the animosity I carry like a shield?

We sit in silence for a moment, the tension settling in like a third person between us. Then he clears his throat. “I just wanted to give you a status update on things.”

“Please. The walking on eggshells for the past three months is getting a little old.”

“Are you really walking on them though?” Nathaniel asks with a look on his face that I can’t quite read.

“Meaning?”

“I don’t know. You tell me. I talk to Sammy too, seeing as I’m the one writing his checks for you.”

“Your point?”

“You’re with Hendrix. A lot.”

“She’s my wife, right? Isn’t this what we were trying to accomplish? That everyone, including her bodyguard, sees that.”

“Hmm.”

“Just fucking say whatever you’re not saying.”

“I don’t know. Maybe Judge Watkins is right.”

“Fuck that and fuck you.” I shove up out of the seat. What the fuck is this shit about?

“And he still acts out when he doesn’t want to face facts,” Nathaniel murmurs.