Page 9 of Matched

Chapter Four

Inara

Insufferable. Ridiculous.Tiróninsoportable. I sit at the kitchen table, grab a catalogue that came in the mail, and slap the counter with it. But instead of the images on the pages, all I can see is Tony. Tony with his towel slipping. Tony doing a sexy little stripper move without a shirt. All of Tony. I had no idea I liked broad shoulders and defined pecs so much. I mean, I’ve admired before, but never gawked. And there’d been gawking. Ogling. Maybe even a gape.

And damn it. I don’t want to gawk or ogle or gape. I don’t want to notice the flecks of gold in his brown eyes or the way the towel hadn’t hidden much, before the main event where the towel gave up all hope. Not yet anyway. My mom had started at least two of her marriages based on sexual attraction alone... and look how far that had taken her. No, I want this union to last, so I plan to take things slowly. Mutual respect and affection first.

Unfortunately, my hormones are not on board. My skin is probably somewhere near the hundred-and-twenty-degree range, but damn. The man has a body, and I’m so flustered at the moment that I can’t decide if duct tape for his mouth would make things better or worse.

He walks past the table straight to the fridge, and I force myself not to notice the cut of his jeans. Or how they seem to have been sewed just for him. How the pockets ride low in the back. How round and firm his ass looks. I grunt and turn back to the counter, but my mind is stuck on how his jeans hug his body in just the right way, emphasizing his incredible form.

I shake my head in short bursts. No. No, no, no. A serious relationship will never work based on lust. We must build some sort of emotional connection first. I refuse to doom our marriage to failure by giving in to baser needs.

And what if we do have sex and then Tony goes to the committee to say he can’t stay with me any longer? My throat tightens. I’ll lose my home.

Mierda.

Rent is due soon, which means it’s time to talk to my new husband about splitting the financial responsibilities.

The refrigerator door opens and the distinct sound of the milk carton sliding out of its spot doesn’t precede the sound of the cabinet opening or milk pouring into a glass. Nope. It precedes several glugs and I whip my head around because if he’s put his mouth on my milk carton... and there he is... carton tipped up, head thrown back, carton to face.

“What the hell are you doing?” My fingernails bite into the palms of my hands. Finally, his unbelievable gall does the trick and helps simmer my hormones the hell down. Even if he does look like a walking Got Milk? ad.

Tony sets the carton down on the island and looks at it and then at me. His grin is back, topped by a slim white mustache, and he puffs out his chest. “Does my body good.”

I waste two seconds of my life glaring at him from across the kitchen before rolling my eyes and burying myself in the catalogue to find that it’s women’s lingerie. Fine. Whatever. Anything is better than dealing with my Neanderthal husband at this point. Even half-naked women in... I tilt my head. A bra studded with so many Swarovski crystals that it reminds me of a chandelier. Huh, maybe it comes with a hidden switch somewhere that will make the model’s boobs light up.

Before I can close the pages, Tony’s standing over me. He chugs the last of the milk, then places the empty carton down on the table. “You trying to avoid talking to me? Or are you genuinely interested in this nonsense?”

I drum my fingernails against the tabletop and press my lips tightly together, because killing him will get me locked up, and I’m not one who can handle being confined to a small space. I’ll have to figure out how to deal with this jerk eventually, if I want our marriage to work. What I won’t do is sit in my kitchen while he desiccates my milk carton and finds me lacking in the comparison to page twenty-three. I don’t know why I’m so mad, because this is exactly the type of behavior I was afraid of, from the first second I read his name on the matching-program paperwork. Maybe I’m just upset he’s proving me right.

“Since you’re here anyway, leering at my catalogue, now’s as good of a time as any to tell you that I expect you to pay half of the rent every month.” Having someone to split the surprise increase in rent with me hadn’t been the reason for signing up for IPP. I’d been prepared to seek out a roommate. But when the committee called and notified me of a match, I’d been relieved. My new landlord can kiss my ass.

“Not a problem. If you read through the contract, there’s a financial section. No freeloading allowed by members of the military. We’re required to take care of our dependents. And I’m more than happy to go in on all the bills, groceries, the works.”

I blink at him. I hadn’t bothered to read through the entire contract. Maybe I should go through it and see what else is stuck in there.

“I’ll get you a debit card tomorrow since we are also sharing my bank account. But I draw the line on you using my money for crystal bras.” He jerks his head toward the page and studies the picture again, then trails his gaze over me, lingering on my chest. He taps his chin while that wicked grin slides across his face. “On second thought...”

I shove back my chair and stomp past him to my bedroom, flinging the door shut because sometimes, I just need the echo of a slamming door to fill the room. It soothes some of the rage boiling beneath my skin. This entire thing is ridiculous. What I need to do—instead of sitting on my bed muttering to myself—is call someone, let them know there’s a flaw in the program and they’ve made a mistake. A big one. The epic kind, with ramifications that could destroy the program’s integrity and kill the success rate. Maybe put funding in jeopardy if word got out how badly they’d messed up this match. Especially if I, say, end up in jail for shoving Tony in a locked closet for the next year with his mouth taped shut. Or worse.

But before I can hunt down my cell, he knocks and pushes my bedroom door open. It’s wrong for my body to immediately react to the sight of his handsome face and the way his form perfectly fills the doorway, or to remind me of how I was hoping for more than a sparring partner to spend the next year with. It’s wrong, but my body buzzes with anticipation anyway.

I exhale as my shoulders slump forward. “What do you want?”

Instead of answering, he walks farther into the room and runs his finger along the edge of my dresser, stopping to test the texture of a doily my abuela made. He picks up my perfume, removes the cap, and sniffs. An involuntary twitch pulls his lips upward at the corners as he puts the bottle back and moves toward the window. “This suits you.”

“It’s a place to sleep.” Though it’s actually my sanctuary. The place I go to when I don’t want to be around anyone, and he’s ruined that for me, because I will forever picture him standing inside my room, touching my things, investigating my life. I’m uncomfortably aware of the way my shoes are visibly jumbled within my open closet and how the thin layer of dust on my dresser and night table showcases I’m not a perfectly tidy person. Then I snort and lift my chin. Whatever. As if a guy who uses someone else’s toothbrush without permission and drinks straight from the milk carton has room to judge.

He moves to sit on the side of the bed opposite mine. There is a stack of books next to him, ignored and ready to teeter to the floor that he straightens and then investigates. One of the classics, a few romance novels and a well-thumbed search and rescue training manual. He picks up one of the romance novels, a historical, and flips to the middle.

After a minute of reading, he looks up. “Love rod?”

I snort and quirk a brow. That one had thrown me too. “Euphemism.”

He pokes his nose back into the book, reads some more, and then flips the page and turns to lie across the bed so that his head is near my hip. “‘Her breasts heave in anticipation. If only he would touch her.’”

Mierda. In his voice, the words come to life and I imagine myself in a turn-of-the-century gown with my hair piled on top of my head and Tony, with his pirate pants unbuttoned, shirt open at the throat. Heat pulses under my skin. I snatch the book because if he reads another word aloud, I can’t be held responsible for my actions. “It helps me sleep to read before bed.”

---