Page 46 of Married With Malice

The floorplan leaves out a lot of walls and blends all the common living areas. It’s the kind of open layout loved by those who enjoy being the hostess. I’m not that person. The vast warren of rooms in the mansion where I grew up was filled with my mother’s maximalist taste and there were always a dozen cozy places to curl up and escape for a while.

Here, the grey walls are bare, every designer touch is dully neutral and the slate-colored tile plank floors make the place look institutional. Most of the brand new modern furniture arrived before we did. Another gift from Richie Amato. The black and white and grey color scheme is the opposite of warm and inviting. I’d like to hire a decorator and start from scratch. An added bonus is this would give me something to do.

Luca won’t care. He already told me to go ahead and do whatever I wanted to the house.

Like every other day so far, he didn’t say when he’d be home. Usually, he shows up between eight and ten p.m. It’s now half past eight.

Sending him a text would be entirely reasonable. But before I’ve even finished slipping my phone out of the back pocket of my jeans I chicken out. Sending a message feels too needy and we’re already in a weird place.

We’re married. We’re having sex. A LOT. We’re living together.

And we’re not sure if we like each other.

This is not entirely accurate. With each passing day, I’ve grown to accept the idea that Idolike Luca. I’ve abandoned all plots to make his life miserable. I feel good when I’m with him.

From what I can tell, Luca doesn’t hate my company either. There were times on the honeymoon when he was downright sweet, like our last night there when he made special arrangements with the kitchen to serve my favorite dessert of panna cotta topped with fresh berries, though it wasn’t even on the menu.

Life with Luca Connelly is proving to be far from terrible. Sabrina didn’t lie. I’m aware that I blush every time I say his name.

A low rumbling interrupts my thoughts. By now I can recognize the sound of the garage door opening.

The sudden fluttery feeling in my belly feels pretty close to excitement. I make a quick dash upstairs to our bedroom. There’s no harm in checking the mirror and running a brush through my hair, especially after spending the evening in the kitchen.

I rinse my mouth out to get rid of any lingering burger breath and exchange my boring black sweater for a daring red V-neck top.

All the while, I strain to hear the sound of the door connecting the garage to the house. Luca never enters quietly.

When I still don’t hear anything after another minute of primping I start to wonder if I imagined the sound of the garage door opening.

This room is right above the garage and a set of French doors in the bedroom opens up to a shallow balcony. When I step outside, I’m greeted with the pleasant chill of an early November evening.

The night air is still and Luca’s voice is very clear. He’s directly below and he must be talking on the phone.

“I get it,” he says. “Some days are a struggle. But it won’t be forever.”

He’s quiet for a moment as he listens to whatever is being said by the person on the other end.

Then he barks out a laugh.

“Hey, I’m right there with you. There comes a time when you’ve got to take one for the team and get what you can out of it.”

It takes a few seconds for his words to really sink in. When they do, a panicked message from my brain insists that he could have been talking anything. Anything at all.

But coldly grim and rational logic has a different warning. Luca was most likely talking about us. And our joke of a marriage.

Luca never wanted to marry me. Why would he? We weren’t even friendly, let alone romantic. But Luca has a talent for turning every situation to his advantage. He’s biding his time here and nothing more.

On our honeymoon, all he really promised me was lots of hot sex while we’re both trapped in this arrangement. He’s doing his part for his family and getting what he can out it. He’s ‘taking one for the team’. Whatever feelings I’ve caught are mine alone.

I’m ridiculous for feeling distraught. My throat is tight and the taste in my mouth is sour. This is worse than getting dumped in public on New Year’s Eve. It’s worse because I can’t just run home and cry in the arms of my sisters. Iamhome and so is he.

The stupidest thing I can do is show him my tears. I can’t handle the idea of receiving pity from Luca Connelly.

He’s still talking but the conversation is wrapping up. In silence, I retreat from the balcony. Right before I close the double doors I hear him say, “All right, man. We’ll talk soon.”

If Luca knows I was out here then it might occur to him that I’ve overheard what he said. Hastily, I dash down the stairs and return to the kitchen. When the door leading to the garage finally opens, I’m busy pretending to clean a countertop that’s already spotless.

Luca calls my name but walks into the kitchen before I can answer. At the sight of me, he breaks into one of his absurdly handsome smiles. No matter how hard I try to stifle a reaction, I fail.

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