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Her eyes widen.

“What?” I ask.

“You laughed.”

“I do that.”

A tiny crease appears between her eyebrows. “But do you?”

“Occasionally.”

“I wasn’t sure.”

“You’ve heard me laugh.”

“Over the phone? That could have been a technical glitch.”

I stare at her.

Her mouth twitches.

“You’re making fun of me.”

“A little.”

“Already?”

“We’ve been married for almost a month. I think we’re past the honeymoon stage.”

My gaze drops to her mouth.

Honeymoon.

Bad word. Very bad word.

Because suddenly my mind is filled with filthy images of her naked and beneath me.

She notices. Her lips part, and there it is again.

That low, hot pull in my gut. Fuck.

I was wrong. So very wrong.

Physical attraction isn’t irrelevant. Not even close.

Because I want my wife.

Instantly and completely. With a force that makes the past month feel like the setup to a joke I didn’t know I was telling myself.

Thirteen years and seven months.

That’s how long this marriage is supposed to last.

Thirteen years and seven months living in the same house with this woman, watching her walk around in leggings, listening to her laugh, seeing her with my son, sleeping down the hall from her.

Christ.

Noelle clears her throat. “I should probably show you what I’ve done to the rest of your house.”