Page 37 of Why Not Forever?

“And this is what you do when you want to relax?”

“If I’m just here for fun, I’ll walk around the whole place like we did today. But if I’m having a really bad day, I’ll come and sit right here and watch them swim for a while. The graceful way they move through the water, it’s like dancing.”

I nudge her shoulder with mine. “You hate dancing.”

She glances at me out of the corner of her eye. “Want to know a secret?”

“Absolutely.”

She presses her lips together for a second, then nods. “I only hate dancing because I’m bad at it.”

I burst out laughing, noting a couple people glancing at us before I quiet. “Of course you do.”

Vic smiles at me in a chagrined sort of way.

“I would like to point out that you’ve danced with me a few times.”

She shrugs. “You don’t really give me a choice, do you? You just take control, and I have to go with it.”

I take her hand, running my thumb over the back of her knuckles. “I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

She shakes her head. “That’s not what I meant. I haven’t been.” She meets my eyes. “Though I appreciate the concern.”

We sit there in silence for a while before she gets up. “Should we continue? I want to show you the narwhal sculpture.”

I stand as well, and she links her arm with mine again. I’m not sure why she’s doing it, why she’s acting as though it’s the most natural thing in the world. But I also don’t take my arm back.

Chapter 14

Vic

Tannerisamorningperson. This isn’t a problem, since I’m also, usually, a morning person. Though he wakes up earlier than I do, which comes with a few benefits. Ever since our wedding, almost six weeks ago now, when I wake up, there’s always coffee already made, usually something for breakfast as well. The only drawback is that he likes to do these things shirtless. Which doesn’t sound like a drawback, but it seriously is.

He comes out of his bedroom each morning in pyjama pants and no shirt or socks, his hair messy, his glasses framing those piercing brown eyes, his beard short and neat. And he’s fucking hot. I hate every moment of it, knowing we’re married, and I can’t have him.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” he calls from the kitchen as I make my way over to the pass-through counter.

As soon as I’m sitting, he hands me my favourite mug filled with coffee and a splash of milk. When he’d moved in, I hadn’t needed to tell him how I like my coffee. He just seemed to know. I’d never asked how.

“Morning,” I say now.

“Breakfast?” he asks.

“What are you making?” I take a sip of the coffee. It’s the perfect temperature.

“Eggs and toast.”

“Sure.”

We don’t talk much as he cooks. I just stare at the planes of his back, watching as his muscles shift and move beneath his skin as he works. What would he do if I slipped off my seat, went into the kitchen and ran my hands over his back?

“Do you work out?” I ask.

He glances at me over his shoulder, shoving his glasses up his nose with the back of his wrist while holding the spatula.

“Yes. Why?”

I call myself an idiot. I’m not supposed to be ogling my husband’s back, shoulders, and arms. Or his chest and abs. Or his long legs and—

---