Page 64 of In Love With Mr. Wrong

“No. You attract drama. I attract publicists begging me not to cause lawsuits.”

“You’re sexy when you’re threatening legal action.”

She spins, eyes narrowing. “You think this is funny?”

“I think you’re half-naked, flushed from rage, and pacing. And it’s doing things to me.”

Margot groans, grabbing a throw pillow and hurling it at me. “You’re the worst.”

I catch it easily, tossing it aside. “You’re lucky I didn’t deck Nathan.”

“You almost did,” she mutters, pacing toward the bedroom, her hips swinging in a way that is absolutely not accidental. “You got that ‘matchmaker mob boss’ look in your eyes.”

I follow, leaning in close behind her. “You like the mob boss look.”

“I do not.”

“You do.”

“Maybe a little,” she admits, backing toward the bed. “Especially when you say things like ‘leave before our lawyers get involved.’”

“Oh, sweetheart,” I murmur, pressing her into the sheets, “I’ll threaten a hundred more lawsuits if it gets you like this again.”

She laughs, arching beneath me. “Just so we’re clear, this isn’t forgiveness. This is stress relief.”

I kiss her neck. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

“Who said we’re sleeping?”

Her legs wrap around me. Her nails bite into my shoulders. And just like that, the journalist, the scandal, the entire outside world fades away, replaced by hands, breath, fire, and the rhythm of a love that refuses to be interrupted.

35

MARGOT

The penthouse is quiet when we walk in. Not the kind of quiet that comes from absence, but the kind born from presence. The rooms hum with that post-travel stillness, half-packed suitcases by the door, the scent of sea salt still clinging to my skin, and Grayson’s hoodie already slung over the back of a kitchen stool like he couldn’t wait to peel it off.

The glass walls stretch out around us, showing the city in all its manic, glittering urgency. It’s stunning. Overwhelming. The kind of skyline that demands your attention even when you just want to disappear into bed.

I slip off my shoes, toe them into the closet, and let out a long breath. The honeymoon haze is still clinging to me, but reality presses in, emails, headlines, the ache in my lower back I’ve been ignoring for days.

Grayson drops our bags and walks over, his palm landing gently on the small of my back. “You good?”

I nod, but it’s automatic. “Just... re-entering Earth’s atmosphere.”

He smiles softly. “Doctor’s in twenty minutes.”

“I know.”

There’s a beat.

He hesitates, then says, “I’m coming with you.”

I glance at him. “You don’t have to.”

“I know. But I want to. You don’t have to do this alone.”

That’s all it takes. The walls drop a little.

---