Page 29 of Forsaking All Others

“Didanything happen between you and Maverick before I got home?” I ask Colt as I enter the bedroom.

Things were fine between us after I came back in the house. Tara’s boyfriend came over with ice cream and we played Pictionary—guys verses girls—but we only got one game in because Theo kept complaining that his stomach was bothering him. Now the kids are all in their rooms, Theo is sleeping and it’s just me and Colt.

Colt didn’t let on that he was angered by anything he overheard, or even that I lied to him. Maybe Maverick was right, maybe Colt knows I went to Maverick with good intentions and he’s willing to overlook the lying.

But even if that’s the case, I feel like I owe him the chance to hash it out and me asking him about the handshake seems like the perfect opening for him to do that.

Pulling down the comforter, Colt meets my gaze.

“No, why?”

I shrug my shoulders as I undo the button on my jeans. Shimmying them down my hips, I slide them off and toss them into the hamper. I pull my shirt over my head and bring my eyes back to Colt.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you two shake hands before,” I say finally.

He laughs, slipping into the bed.

“We were shaking on an agreement we came to,” he explains. Folding his hands behind his head, his eyes travel the length of me.

Narrowing my eyes, I drop my hands to my hips.

“Oh, and what agreement might that be?”

“If Mark slips up, he’s going to have to suffer the wrath of both me and Maverick.”

And just like that, the list of lies gets longer. I don’t call him out on it, though. I let him hang onto his pride and quietly vow that the lies stop here.

“Now, get your ass over here and lose the panties,” Colt says, pulling me out of my head.

I smile at him and reach behind me, finding the clasp of my bra.

“What about my bra?”

“Panties first.”

My hands fall from my back and I loop my thumbs through the thin band around my waist, pushing my panties down my hips. Colt’s gaze drops as I kick the silk away and start for our bed.

Deciding to push the events from the last twenty-four hours out of my head, I climb into bed with my husband. His hands grip my hips, and he pulls me on top of him. I bend my head, brushing my lips over his.

“I love you,” I whisper.

Those three words aren’t simply meant to be a declaration of love, they’re my unspoken apology too. He slides his fingers into my hair and pulls my head back so he can stare into my eyes.

“You’re an incredible actress, sweetheart.”

I laugh, but there is no humor to it.

“Excuse me?”

I mean I just told my husband I love him, and his response is that I’m an incredible actress—either my conscience is playing tricks on me or Colt’s taking that opening. Judging by the way his jaw tenses and his light eyes narrow into tiny slits, I’m going to say it’s the latter.

He pulls his fingers from my hair and roughly slides his hands to my hips, rolling me onto my back.

“Colt,” I start but he quickly cuts me off.

“Don’t fucking talk,” he growls, rolling off me. He sits up and swings his legs over the side of the bed. “It’s always him,” he says.

My gaze shoots to his back as I sit up and lean against the headboard. He doesn’t actually think that—I mean if he believes that, then why is he even with me.

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