Page 44 of Hot Shot

“Why not? It’s true.”

“Well, because, I mean…” she blusters, “if I went around calling you husband all the time, wouldn’t that bother you?”

“Oh,pleasecall me husband, Cass,” I say, groaning.

She rolls her eyes, but her flush deepens. “Shut my door and get in the truck.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I answer and do as I’m told.

And I thank God for her.

If she hadn’t been here, I don’t know what I’d have done. How I’d feel.

I’m glad I’ll never know.

CHAPTER 16

SAVED BY THE ICK

CASS

When the chorus of “Please, Please, Please” hits, Jessa and I belt it from the top of our lungs.

I’m sitting cross-legged in front of Cricket’s new bookshelf, arranging all the books and doohickies I got for her while Jessa dances in front of the dresser, singing into a tube of fancy scented drawer liner. We’re close to being finished, which is a good thing, because we’ve been here all day setting everything up. She’ll be here in a few days, but I probably won’t come back until the night she gets here.

No point in seeing Wilder any more than I have to, right? I only chose Saturday to do this because Wilder’s at work where he can’t get his man all over me. Not because I don’t want it all over me. Actually,exactlybecause I want it all over me.

At the funeral, things were so sad, I couldn’t find it in me to be mad at him. So I’ve spent the last few days amping myself up to get pissed in an effort to get ready for cohabitation. I figured I could use it as a shield whenever things get a little too familiar.Actually, I thought I was doing a great job of it. I had no sexy feelings for him at all. Dry as the Sahara down there.

And then I walked into the house this morning.

When we walked into her room, I felt all kinds of ways. Because he put all the furniture together for us. To make matters worse, he left a little note that read,Hope it’s okay that I put this stuff together, thought I’d save you some time. -W

Even his handwriting is solid and strong and honest. It’s not even fair.

I’m starting to think the universe does not want me to find myself unless myself is hiding somewhere in Wilder’s pants. Either that, or it’s a plan is to teach me what is likely a cataclysmically painful lesson. Frankly, both options feel mean, but at this point, the bed is made. And in a couple of days, I’m going to have to lay in it.

With Wilder.

The chill that wiggles down my spine ends in a pool of heat low in my belly.

The way he was with Cricket?

Hot.

The way he helped me into the truck and put my seatbelt on?

Hot.

Putting Cricket’s furniture together just to make my life easier?

Hot. Slutty. Triple-X, sexually explicit, pornographic behavior.

Thank God I wasn’t here when he put all this stuff together. I don’t know if I’d survive watching him use power tools.

And don’t even get me started on the pictures he hung in the hallway. There have to be at least twenty, with photos spanning from middle school until that last summer before we left for college. There’s even one of us from the Vegas trip that put me in this position—Wilder and I on the strip the morning after wegot married. In fact, at that point, we hadn’t signed the papers. As far as I knew, we were about to be divorced—this was it, the last moments of being his wife. You can see the war of bliss and devastation raging behind my eyes at the knowledge we were about to be separated forever.

Shows what I knew.

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