Page 52 of Buckled in Barbwire

Paisley is held captive again once we cross the threshold. To be fair, the view straight ahead is worthy of her awestruck expression. The entire back wall is made of glass. Beyond the window is a deck that’s large enough to host a Benson family reunion. There’s a hot tub sunk into the right side that might get some use.

“What a view.” Paisley’s voice is sweeter than spun sugar as she appreciates our private patio surrounded by nothing but trees and the bay.

“Damn fine indeed.” But my gaze is on her.

That realization has me turning my focus to the kitchen, which occupies half the square footage. A lounge area fit with a fireplace sits opposite. There’s not much else. My skin is suddenly stretched too tight. I’m cramped in this crowded floor plan. It’s cozy and intimate and clearly meant to keep us in close quarters.

At least the interior design reflects the same upscale quality as the outside. Not that I expected less with Dadresponsible. Meanwhile, my wife appears impressed with the expensive shit arranged around the room. I’m reminded that we come from vastly different backgrounds. Is this the way into her good graces? My gaze finds its way back to her as she gets a feel for the layout.

Her fingers drift along glossy countertops and stainless-steel appliances. A plush rug stops her short, toes curling into the thick fibers. She pets the fuzzy blanket hanging over a chair as if the cashmere knit is the softest thing she’s ever felt. Even the light fixtures get an adoring glance. The burning in my gut certainly isn’t jealousy. Hell, I’m glad she’s distracted. That leaves me to do as I please.

Paisley wanders off to explore the lofted den or whatever’s up the staircase while I settle onto the couch and flip on the news. While the anchors drone on, I take a moment to breathe. It’s quiet and still and awkward.

Nothing needs my attention. I haven’t sat idle since influenza bit me in the ass four years ago. But even in a fever haze, I was keeping tabs on the business. That’s not an option now. Dad insisted that I treat this trip as a true vacation. Anyone who bothers me—excluding my bride—will face his wrath.

A dull throb kicks against my temples at the reminder of who’s sharing this space with me. My thumb spins the ring on my finger, and I consider removing the strange weight. That impulse vanishes faster than it formed. If I ditch the symbol of our marriage, Paisley will be quick to follow. She’s just looking for an excuse to flee. The drive up here was tense, just like every other battle I’ve fought against her. I slip off my jacket and try to get more comfortable. Thecuffs of my shirt are too tight, just itching to be rolled up. That would require me to expose more than I’m willing.

But I’ll have to let my guard down eventually. We’re stuck in this cabin together. Being alone with her for days on end will dry hump my last nerve. I’ve been trying to trick myself into believing it’s a bad dream.

The approaching slap of bare feet on hardwood dissolves that illusion. “There’s only one bed.”

My eyes shift from the screen to where Paisley broods. “Is that a problem?”

“Yes!” She tosses her arms in the air like that should’ve been obvious. “Where will you sleep?”

“In the bed.”

Her outraged squeak is more appropriate for a mouse in a trap. “Absolutely not.”

I recline into the cushions, disguising the fire in my blood as I picture her curled against me. “You’re my wife, Twinkles. We’ll share like a happily married couple on their honeymoon. No touching unless you initiate, though.”

Blonde hair whips back and forth with her refusal. “That doesn’t work for me.”

“Consent is important,” I chide.

“The sleeping arrangements,husband.” Her tone on that endearment twitches my lips. Damn, she’s feisty.

“I guess you’ll find somewhere else to rest your pretty little head.”

Paisley’s jaw drops. “You’d make me sleep on the sofa?”

“No,” I state calmly. “You’d make that choice on your own.”

“I can’t believe this,” she huffs. “How long are we supposed to stay here?”

“A couple days at least. Just for show,” I add for the sake of calming her tits.

But then she goes and asks, “What are we going to do with ourselves?”

My gaze heats on her curves in the dress I picked out. “I could think of a few things.”

“Hey! You said no touching.”

I lift my palms. “Just looking. No harm in that.”

“Leads to trouble.”

“Only if we let it.” My voice is a coarse rasp that raises goose bumps along her exposed flesh.

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