Page 47 of Sweet Surrender

But he’s gone for the day and I’m going to revel in this time to myself. It’s been six months of working nonstop toward making the bakery a success and so the past four days have felt like heaven. No early morning wake-up calls to bake. No constant thoughts of how to survive. No need to explain where Paul went to the few regular customers I have.

Just a sign on the door that says closed until Wednesday. Yes, I feel guilty about doing even that. But the thought of not having to live paycheck to paycheck for a while and being able to pay Barney and Annie in full in the next few weeks makes it palatable.

So palatable that I even might be enjoying myself as I relax at his luxurious poolside. Who knew I’d get to be so good at pretending?

First, at being blissfully ignorant of the gigantic order I have to fulfill and second, of the fact that there’s a diamond ring currently creating a tan line on my finger.

I sink farther into the chaise lounge, welcome the sun’s warmth on my skin, and the quiet in my head that hasn’t been quieted in forever.

“What are you thinking about?”

I jump at the sound of Jase’s voice and instantly panic. “Hi.” I’m in a bathing suit. “I didn’t know you were home.” A bathing suit that is small and ill-fitting and oh, man. “Why are you here?” My legs are flat, which means my ass and thighs are spread and probably look like bloated pancakes.

Oh.

My.

God.

He chuckles, his brows narrowing. “I’m here because I live here?” His pitch goes up at the end of the sentence as if he’s not certain whether that’s the right answer or not or more like why he’s answering it at all.

“Yes. Silly question.” My body heats as embarrassment and insecurity hits me. “You said you’d be back at like four.” Well after I’d be out of this bikini and in something more . . . covering.

“We finished early,” he says.

“I hope you don’t mind that I came out here.”

His eyes rake over my body as I take the rolled-up towel from behind my head and try to subtly and eloquently cover my thighs and stomach. “Don’t cover up on my account.”

I snort and keep covering. “I’ve seen your dates. Toned. Tanned. Perfect. You’re damn well right I’m going to cover up.”

He reaches out and puts a hand on my wrist to stop me. “Hendrix. Stop.” His words are a mixture of disbelief, warning, and surprise. “You’re beautiful.”

I open my mouth to refute him, a response I’ve acquired over the years to put myself down before someone else does front and center, but the lift of his brows and the disdain in his eyes stop me.

“And no, I don’t have to say that because you’re my wife.”

“Thank you, but I still think you’re full of shit.”

He sits down on the cushion so that his hip is next to mine, his hand is resting over me and next to my opposite hip, and tsks. “Three days into our marriage and you’re already criticizing me.” He lifts the beer to his lips and chuckles around his sip. God, he’s gorgeous. And not just attractive because of his looks or the ink that covers his skin, but . . . his smile, the light in his eyes, the way he looks at me and makes me feel . . . like I’m the only thing he sees.

And I don’t know how that makes me feel when clearly right now I’m terribly uncomfortable in my own skin.

But he’s sitting next to me, touching me, and I can’t stop focusing on how close he is and how charmed I am by him with each interaction.

“You’ve been busy.” I try to sound nonchalant. Try to show that I’m not thinking about how easily that hand he’s put on the other side of my hip could run over my bare skin or how it might feel.

“Yeah. Sorry about that. This was all stuff that was scheduled before . . . this needed to happen. We’re in the middle of a writing phase so sometimes, time escapes us.”

“You’re working on new material?”

He emits a heavy sigh. “Some days, yes. Other days it feels like we’re pulling teeth. And still cool either way.”

“Just getting to hear you say that is cool,” I say and then worry I just sounded like a fan rather than whatever it is that I am. “But this isn’t music for the tour, is it?”

“No. God, no. We’re not that insane. The tour is for the last album and old stuff, but we like to write the next one before we head out. Or at least start the process so that we’ve established a baseline sound for the next release and can tweak it and work on it when we get sick of playing the same shit night after night.”

“I always wondered about that. If musicians get sick of playing and hearing the same songs.”