Page 70 of The Spy Ring

“They’re my friends. If I want to tell them we’re,” I lowered my voice, “having sex, then I’ll do it myself.”

“Fine. I forgot how embarrassed you are of me,” Jagger said before turning and walking out the door.

“Men are the worst,” I growled as I balled my hands at my side. “Excuse me, Morgana. I’ll take a raincheck on that lunch celebration.”

“Of course,” I heard Morgana say as I marched out the door.

When I was outside the shop, I noticed he was about to step into a taxi. I scurried over before he could close the door.

“Jagger. Where are you going?” I said slightly winded.

“To your place.” He turned to me with the door between us.

“Without me?”

“I figured you would end up there. We need to talk, and I’m not about to do that in a flower shop.” He pushed the door open to allow me to climb inside.

I turned to him once we were seated and he gave the address to the driver. “Okay, so let’s talk.”

His eyes remained focused on the driver. “Okay, so let’s talk.”

“Okay,” I said through clenched teeth.

It was a silent and stuffy trip back to my building. What was only a ten-minute drive felt like hours with Jagger’s irritable silence.

When we finally made it inside my apartment and I shut the door, all the words Jagger had pent up came rushing out. I was endangered of being knocked down by a tidal wave of sound.

“What is it about me that you find so repulsive? Is it that I’m not rich like every guy your friends date?” He paused.

My mouth fell open and as I was about to respond he continued, “Maybe it’s that I’m currently jobless. Or you’re ashamed of that night in Vegas. Which I can promise you nothing happened.” He pointed his finger in the air as if that statement alone made him some sort of saint.

“Except we got married, and I have no recollection of that night.” I folded my arms as we stood in the entranceway of my apartment. The man didn’t even let me put down my purse.

He cleared his throat, his eyes taking a break from trying to burn me alive. “Except for that, yes. If I had known you wouldn’t remember anything, I probably wouldn’t have married you.”

“Probably?” I took a step closer, throwing my purse on the kitchen counter beside us.

“Most likely. Not. No, I would not have married you.”

And that’s when I faltered. Something stuck in my throat, and I had to take a moment before I could speak.

“Then you regret it?” I asked.

He rubbed the back of his neck and shook his head. “No. I don’t regret marrying you. I don’t think I regretted it even when I stepped out of the hotel bathroom the next day and found you weren’t there.”

My eyes burned, and I couldn’t tell if my heart wanted to jump out of my chest or melt into oblivion.

“How about you, Tiffany? Do you regret marrying me?”

Of all the uncertainty I had about Jagger, this was the one answer I knew for certain.

“Yes,” I said.

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