Page 10 of Bride Bargain

The opening credits of a spy movie are paused on the TV screen, because Claire favors movies about handsome men hitting things. The living room is lit only by a floor lamp, and the city lights glitter outside the dark windows.

Dinner has been ordered. Conditions are optimal.

“It’s been ages,” Claire says, padding into the room in a pair of blue leggings, fluffy white socks, and some kind of slouchy sleep t-shirt. She grins when she sees me waiting in the same button-down shirt and pants that I wore to work, then puts on her best David Attenborough voice. “Ah, yes. Here we have the CEO, relaxing in his natural environment.”

I blink down at myself, smoothing a palm down the line of buttons on my chest. It hadn’t occurred to me to change. These textures are minimally distracting; that’s why I bought them. But maybe I do look a little… formal.

“Would you like me to wear something else?”

“No, no.” Claire flops down onto the sofa, tugging the blanket onto her lap. “You do you, Ramsay. Oh!”

She lunges for the mug of hot chocolate on the coffee table, like I might snatch it away. As if I didn’t make it especially for her. As if I don’t do everything for this woman in some way. Baffling.

“Thankyou.”

Claire moans as she takes a long sip. She’s smug as she licks half melted marshmallow off her upper lip, and I’m frozen in place for two heartbeats before I can finally move again. I round the sofa and sit beside her, as close as I can get without touching that demonic blanket.

“You’re welcome.”

It’s easier to breathe once the sounds of gunfire and squealing car tires fill the living room. Claire watches the screen, rapt, as bright light washes over her delicate features. Meanwhile, I watchher.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

My heart slams against my rib cage, hard enough to bruise.

Because Claire’s here. She’s here, and she’s my wife, and she’s relaxed enough to chat between fight scenes, trying to guess the secret villain of the movie, wondering out loud how these fictional men can possibly survive all these stab wounds and bullet holes.

“I’m just saying,” she says, setting down her empty mug with a dull thud. If I kissed her now, would she taste of chocolate? Our wedding night encounter has already rewired chocolate in my brain to be the most erotic taste in existence. “I could barely walk when I twisted my ankle, and here they are jumping off trains while bleeding from open wounds.”

“That’s spy stamina.”

Claire laughs softly, snuggling deeper into the blanket. “Guess so.” She eyes me, the lights from the movie flickering across her face. “You’dbe a good spy.”

It’s such a ridiculous statement, I think I’ve misheard. “I beg your pardon?”

“You would!” She sits up straighter, excited now, eyes sparkling in the gloom. “Think about it, Elliot. You’re, like, Mister Vault. You never give anything away. Are you happy? Sad? Plotting world domination? No one ever knows!”

“Youknow,” I point out, feeling oddly sick at this new game. Is that really how Claire sees me? As some blank, emotionless robot?

“Not always,” Claire says, and my insides churn even worse. So thatishow she sees me.

“I’d be a terrible spy.”

“You’d be awesome.”

“I physically hate lying.”

Claire shakes her head, pointing at me. “But you like fancy tech and codes!”

What? “I code for my job,” I say, facing her fully now, the movie forgotten. “That’s not the same as speaking in code. You do know that, right? James Bond isn’t going around speaking Python.”

“Orishe?” Claire raises both eyebrows, and I realize way, way too late that she’s teasing me. Relief drifts through me, soothing my jagged insides.

It’s been so long since Claire teased me like this, I forgot the warning signs. But hey—this spat isn’t over yet. When it comes to Claire, I can dish it out too.

“You’re wearing it.” Reaching across the fluffy blanket wasteland, I catch her hand and raise it to the light from the screen.

Her ring sparkles.Thering.

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