Page 33 of It's Holy Matrimony, Baby

“I’m no angel.” She shakes her head and the end of her ponytail bounces against her shoulder. “That’s his name?”

“Yeah. He likes you,” I say. “He doesn’t usually like people.”

“I like him too.” She walks right up to me. “Does it bother you that I moved in?”

“No.” I swap the rake for a shovel and a hessian bag. “No, it doesn’t.”

Her eyes widen almost indiscernibly. She hides her shock well. Plucking the bag from my hands she holds it open. “I should have asked though. Or mentioned it. Or—”

“You’re my wife.” I shrug it off. “This is your home.”

The grooves in her forehead become noticeable, but she doesn’t say anything. Digging the shovel into the pile of oranges, I start to scoop them into the bag. She’s not here because she wants to be. She’s goading me. Someone with her attitude toward marriage and relationships doesn’t up and change overnight, no matter how fantastic the sex was.

Doesn’t mean I won’t use her being under my roof to my full advantage. Whatever she’s doing here, whatever she’s playing at, I’m not going to let it faze me. The money is too important. Life changing. It could fix everything. If I have to put up with Beck trying to turn my world upside down, so be it. I’ve done it before. Can do it again for a time. Lena destroyed me, but Beck will save me. Even if she never knows it. It’s kind of fitting really.

“I didn’t know about Hollander’s food,” she says as I scoop the last of the oranges into the bag. “Is there anywhere I can get more tonight?”

I take the bag from her and collect the rake. “I’m going to take a shower and then we’ll drive back into town. Need to get some people food too.”

“Don’t like tofu?” she asks sweetly.

I snort to myself. There’s only one reason that shit is in my fridge, and it isn’t because she eats it.

It’s been a week since Beck moved in with me. Seven days of coming home to a house that looks like it’s been ransacked. There’s a half-eaten pizza left to get cold and gross on my coffee table. A slice of it is upside down on my floor. The oil from the cheese is no doubt seeping into the wood. There’s a smell too. It’s almost worse than the oranges; like moldy socks and stale sweat. I toss my keys on the counter along with the six-pack of beer and bottle of wine I picked up on my way home.

I huff out a breath and open a beer. She’s driving me crazy. Her hotel room was a mess, but this is worse. Almost as if she’s intentionally trying to push me into saying enough is enough. Scratch that. It’s exactly like she’s trying to goad me into kicking her out. She was planning something from the very first night. She had that article open on her laptop. Doing research. Only she must have decided not to go through with it when she thought I’d change my mind. Clearly, she’s scheming with a vengeance now.

My bedroom door is closed to me, like it has been every night since she moved in. She hasn’t been hiding though. Most evenings she comes out and slouches on the couch in the same shorts and tank she’s worn all week. There’s so much popcorn between my couch cushions now, I’ll never get it all out. Those little seeds are a pain in the ass. If I have to watch another episode of Keeping Up with the Kardashians...

It’s not all bad. Having her here. Sharing space. Spending time together. Listening to her commentary running over the top of the shows she can’t seem to get enough of. Not being alone. On my own. Even if she’s adamant about getting her way. Can’t blame her for that. Admire her commitment. But I’m committed too. That’s why I’ve allowed her to relegate me to the couch. It’s why I haven’t lost my calm when it feels like there’s a storm brewing inside me over the state of the cabin.

I tap on the door between us. “Beck, we need to talk.”

She doesn’t answer.

I growl under my breath. “Could you unlock this door, so we can have a conversation?”

“It’s open.” The wood muffles her voice.

It’s dark inside the bedroom. The curtains are drawn and there aren’t any lights on. The air smells like salt and stale sheets. “Are you sick?”

“No.”

I flip the lights on. It’s a horror movie. No one can live like this. Dressed in the same clothes she’s been wearing these past seven days, she’s curled up in my bed reading something on her phone. Hollander is stretched out with his head on her knee, and there’s an empty sleeve of cookies beside her. The last one is in her hand. She’s surrounded by crumbs, and not just the invisible sand like crumbs that you only know are there because they’re like sandpaper on your skin. That’s half a cookie crushed into my pillow. Damn. “What’s that on your shirt?”

She glances down at her chest and shrugs. “Oh, that’s pizza.”

“Pizza?” My jaw cracks as I clamp my teeth together. She’s enjoying this little show she’s putting on. Waiting for me to lose my cool. Can’t do it though. That’s exactly what she wants.

“Yeah.” She flicks a little bit of crusted cheese off her shirt and it lands on my sheets.

I stare at the stringy glob of mozzarella with traces of tomato paste that’s staining my sheets. Disgusting. It’s too much. “That’s it.”

“What is?” She looks up at me innocently.

I take a deep breath and force myself to relax. Can’t get caught up in an argument. Won’t let her talk me into a corner. But I can change the playing field. And I sure as hell can get my bed back. My knees bump the mattress as I scoop her up.

Unsettled from his nap, Hollander bounds from the bed and heads for the door. He stops only long enough to trill his offense at having been uprooted and then slinks from the room.

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