Page 36 of It's Holy Matrimony, Baby

CHAPTER TEN

Marriage is hard work.

Through the good times and the bad.

It takes compromise.

And forgiveness.

BECK

I have to regroup after that. Have to find my bearing. He pulls me out of the shower and drags my sopping tank and bra off before he wraps a towel around me. He peels off his socks and shirt and drops them into the hamper with mine. I watch his hands work the button on his jeans. The hard bulge trapped inside is painfully obvious. My mouth waters as I catch a glimpse of paler skin and fine hair that leads deeper into the thick material as he walks past me and out of the bathroom, leaving a trail of water in his wake.

Here I am trying to disgust him, trying to change his stubborn ass mind, and he’s blowing mine. With his fingers and his mouth, oh God, did he. More than that. It’s the other stuff. Not just the sexy stuff. It’s the patience he’s managed to have though he’s been grinding his teeth in his sleep because he’s so on edge. It’s how considerate he was while he tactfully manhandled me into realizing being a slob isn’t going to win me this war. It’s the fact that he refuses to walk away.

I don’t know a lot of men like that. I’ve known cheaters, like Liv’s fiancé who we found in bed with his secretary that weekend we ran off to Vegas. Chauvinists who think women are secondary humans, like my mother’s third husband. Assholes who assume the whole world revolves around them. Players. Control freaks. Momma’s boys. Psychopaths. It’s enough to put a woman off even trying to find a good man. Or it should be. Not that I have that problem. I know better. Finding a happy ever after is like winning the national lottery. Better to save my time and money and dignity.

Which is why Nox washing my hair and taking care of me in the shower shouldn’t have felt so nice. It shouldn’t have made me relax. It shouldn’t have made me warm everywhere he touched me and turned me on in a way straight up flirting never has.

He leaves me alone in the bathroom for a couple of minutes. When he comes back he’s changed into dry clothes. He holds out an armful of my things. “Didn’t know what you’d want.”

“Thank you.” I take them all from him. Watch him close the door while my pulse takes intermission, and my stomach throws up on itself like an Aerosmith groupie. Why can’t I ignore the way he looks at me, the way he touches me, these stupid tremors I feel inside when he gets close?

It doesn’t matter. It’s not the real problem here. The real issue is Nox didn’t seem at all affected by plan A to get him to sign divorce papers. He was supposed to be repelled. I pull on my panties and bra, latch the clasp before I pluck a dress from the bundle of clothing. I’m not the neatest person, living my nomadic lifestyle. Packing and unpacking suitcases and never doing my own dishes, but I went to a lot of effort in the hopes of achieving that result.

I pull the dress over my head, tug up the side zip. Even I have a limit, and I crossed that on day two of not showering. I curl a strand of hair up under my nose and sniff the clean scent of it. At least I don’t smell like a mosh pit anymore. He should have been irritated. Why wasn’t he?What will it take to make him crack?

Leaving the bathroom, I wander into the bedroom with the rest of the clothes in my arms. He’s stripped the bed. In the background the washing machine is whirring gently. Dumping my pile on top of the chest of drawers, I walk out to the kitchen. Hollander is crouched over his bowl, chewing loudly. He glances at me for a second before going back to his food. Is it possible for a cat to look at you with disappointment? Because that’s exactly what it feels like.

There’s a bottle of bubbly white wine sitting on the counter. The kind that’s pretending to be champagne but can never hope to live up to the reputation. Kind of like me right now. I thought I was immune to romantic gestures. I’m the girl who gags when her friends gush about boys. The one who always sees the fault lines in relationships before anyone else notices. I know the goddamn science. I’m known as that girl; the one who thinks all romantic connection is a crock of shit. But it’s like my ability to recall facts and statistics goes out the window around Nox. I’m running on emotion when I should be using my head.

Leaning over the kitchen island, I pick up the bottle of faux champagne, tear off the foil wrapping, and wriggle the cork out of the neck. I pour wine into a glass, while outside, aggressive rock music starts. Real headbanging stuff. Maybe I did get to him after all. A little. Somehow I don’t think it’s enough. Otherwise he wouldn’t have been so nice to me. He would have reacted differently, wouldn’t he?

I drop onto the couch, wine slapping the side of the glass and dribbling over my hand. I lick it off my fingers and set the glass down while I reach for my laptop. Hollander jumps up on the back of the couch by my shoulder, and then leaps onto the cushion beside me, where he twists around a few times before settling. I sink a hand into his tabby coat, and he starts to purr. But I’ve already broken two of my ‘never ever will I’s’ when it comes to Nox. I can’t add a third. I drag my hand from his fur and focus on pulling up that Anti-Cupid list of ways to push a man away. Time for a refresher before this situation gets out of control.

I have to work out how to push him to his breaking point. Even if it’s wrong. Even if I have the same buzz on my skin that I get when I hear a sad song. There’s too much on the line and not enough time. I have six weeks to get his signature. Twelve weeks to finalize the end of this marriage. If my luck can hold that long. I can’t give up. How far am I willing to go?

Putting down my screwdriver on the new coffee table I assembled, I rub my clammy palms over my shorts. I’ve spent the whole afternoon putting together flat pack furniture with a screwdriver, terrible instructions, and some ingenuity. I take a deep breath and chew on my lip, and then kick the leg of the coffee table and wait for it to clatter into a pile of broken pieces. It doesn’t. And I only had to call Dash twice. The last time I tried to put together furniture my brother had to come to the rescue. I can disassemble a song down to its parts and build a thriving blog, but when it comes to real life building projects I’m hopeless. Yet, nothing I’ve put together so far has come crashing down. It’s kind of cool. I might even be a little chuffed if I was building furniture because I wanted to and not in the hopes of making Nox lose his cool.

It took me a couple days to come up with this plan. One that is going to work. The cabin now looks like the armoire from Beauty and the Beast yacked its ruffles and frills everywhere. So ugly. It’s a hodgepodge of shiny white surfaces, Nox’s old furniture, and bright, almost neon lace and linen. A two-year-old with a box of crayons could have done a better job at decorating. At least it’s not permanent.

It’s not. As soon as Nox sees this he’s going to agree that there’s no way we could make this marriage work. We’re too different. He’s small town, all work no play, home is where the heart is. And I’m a nomad with no heart. I have to be. Besides, I’m only trying to do us both a favor.

The door to the cabin opens, and I jump. Oh God, here we go. I turn around slowly as his footsteps move closer. At first he doesn’t notice anything, his focus on the phone in his hand. He scowls at the device, his brows pulled heavily together.

“I thought we might...” His gaze meets mine and then darts around the room behind me. His eyes widen, his nostrils flare. He drops his hands to his side, forgetting about whatever he was doing with his phone. The muscles at the base of his jaw turn to stone. “What the hell have you done?”

I tremble under his stare, my pulse racing. This is going to work. It has to. I slide a smile onto my face, force it as I take a step in his direction. “Do you like it?”

“Do I like it?” he echoes, his tone incredulous. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

I push the corners of my mouth up higher. My cheek muscles hurt from this stupid faux grin. “Is that a yes? I wanted to turn your bachelor pad into something that suits both of us. Now that we’re living together as husband and wife I thought it was only fair that I had a say in how our home was decorated.”

“You did this for us? Babe, it’s...” He looks like he’s about to choke or have a heart attack. “Where’s my furniture?”

“In storage,” I say as sweetly as I can muster.

“Holy shit.” Spinning around he marches to the fridge, pulls out a beer and twists the lid off. It’s not a screw cap, but he makes it work. He tips the bottle up and drains most of it in one hit, slamming it down on the kitchen island. “You took my furniture without asking me?”

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