Page 11 of Bride Bargain

My thumb traces her delicate knuckle, and Claire is so soft, so warm, so perfect.

She sucks in a sharp breath, right as gunfire rattles through the TV speakers, then snatches her hand back, cradling it to her chest. Claire narrows her eyes, but I grin at her.

“It doesn’t mean anything,” she says, but I can read her expressions like my favorite book, and I know when my best friend is lying.

“It means something to me,” I tell her.

Claire goes incredibly still, like a prey animal on high alert. Wrinkling my nose, I pinch her ridiculous blanket and tug it away, dropping it on the floorboards.

Now there’s nothing between us; nothing to keep my hands off her. Heat simmers in my blood.

My new wife stares at me, chest rising and falling beneath her sleep shirt. Her lips part, and her tongue flicks out, wetting them so they shine. She looks as rattled as I feel.

Claire.

Fuck. I need her.

The sofa creaks as I lean forward. She raises her hands—either to touch my chest or push me away, I’ll never know—because the buzzer sounds, more jarring than any explosion on the TV.

We both freeze.

“Thai,” Claire gasps after a long pause, like she’s coming up for air.

Right. Thai.

Clumsy with frustration, I lurch off the sofa.

Five

Claire

Want to hear something tragic? These drunken noodles are completely wasted on me. They’re the best noodles in the city, our go-to Thai order, and normally I can’t stop slurping and moaning as we eat them. One time, I groaned so loudly over these noodles that Elliot threw a cushion at my head and called me a noodle pervert.

Tonight, though, I barely register each mouthful. Flavors and textures pass me by as I chew in a daze, my whole body tingling as I stare at the TV screen.

Shapes, colors, sounds. I don’t reallyseethe movie either.

I’m on high alert for one thing, and one thing alone.

Elliot.

Was he going to kiss me? He sure seemed like he might, with those dark blue eyes locked on me, his jaw going taut with determination. And the way he shifted forward, muscles flexing under his shirt—the way he loomed over me in the gloom, like he wanted to blanket my whole body under his—

The squeal of tires makes me jump, and I stare unseeing at another car chase. A sliver of onion slips from between my chopsticks, dropping back into my bowl.

In all our years of best-friendship, in all this time of nursing my secret crush, Elliot Ramsay has never hinted that he might want more. Is this new? I guess marrying a girl might make you see her in a new light… but if itisnew, what took him so long?

Maybe Elliot needed the prompt. Maybe he needed to see me in a white gown on that rooftop, to slide his ring onto my finger, before the possessiveness kicked in. Or maybe that—thatthingwith the chocolate cake flipped a switch in his brain.

I don’t know what came over me. For the last week, I’ve replayed that kitchen encounter over and over in my mind, drowning in embarrassment and arousal, trying to make sense of my own behavior, but it’s hopeless.

It’s like…

I surrendered to instinct. Put my poor, frazzled brain on autopilot, then sat back to watch the chaos ensue. And instead of pushing me away like I figured Elliot would—like I would have bet my life savings that he would—my new husband joined in the madness.

He gripped me close.

Rough sounds escaped his throat.

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