Page 11 of Til Divorce Do Us Start

Noelle’s in a dress. Not one of her usual soft tees or leggings, but something fancier, tighter. She’s swiping lipstick across her mouth like it personally offended her, tugging on the kind of shoes she insists are “flats,” even though they still manage to make her legs look unfairly good.

Before I can get a word out, she’s already gone, slipped through the door.No way she’s dating.

I pause at the thought. I blink a few times. There’s no reason for hernotto date. We’re only married on paper. We’re not in a relationship. What if she brings a man back here? We haven’t even talked about rent, let alone setting ground rules about hookups. Hell, I don’t evenknowif she’s single.

Because we don’t talk—we fight.

I get overwhelmed. She’s in my space, doing everything differently. Loud, messy, emotional,present. And every time we open our mouths, it ends in a clash. No conversations, just friction.

I don’t get that bright, bubbly version of her unless she doesn’t know I’m watching. I caught her almost crying at a movie once. Saw her smiling, soft and half-asleep in the middle of the night, hair a mess, breathing slow. For a second, she looked... peaceful.

But the moment we actuallyseeeach other, reallylook—it’s back to the same cycle. Sharp words, tighter walls.

And now the thought of her with someone else—laughing, kissing, being sweet for some other guy—makes my chest feel like it’s caught in a vise.

We need to talk. Set boundaries. Get our story straight so we don’t screw ourselves over in court.

That’s what matters. Not... whatever the hell this is I’m feeling.

I burn dinner the first time I try to make it and then the door shuts. I hear two thuds and looks over. Noelle doesn’t even look at me. She walks to the couch and flops down. I open my mouth to sass her, but then hear her scream into the pillow.

Setting my freshly cleaned skillet back on the stove, I walk to the living room and find her laying there, limp. Clearing my throat doesn’t get me anything, so I sigh. “Noelle?”

“Go away,” she mumbles.

“Did your date go badly?” It slips between my teeth before I can bite it back.

She rolls over, looks at me, then settles on her back. “It wasn’t a date, despite what my client thought.”

My hands curl into fists. “What happened.”

It’s not a question, it’s a demand.

Noelle huffs and rolls her eyes while wiping under her eyes. “The normal b.s. He thought that a business meeting – with other people there, by the way – was a set up. His hands wandered. He tried to put his hotel room card in my panties, and I couldn’t make a scene without threatening my job.”

My teeth grind. The sound fills my ear.

Noelle stares at me for a long moment. “It’s fine. I’m used to it.”

“Youshouldn’tbe used to it. Slap his hands. Threaten him with a harassment lawsuit,” I growl.

“I’m a copywriter, Colin. I’m low on the totem and a lot of the businesses I work for are boys’ clubs. I need the salary and-”

Grabbing her chin seems like the right choice when she sits up. Her eyes widen, then narrow at my touch. I pull her closer. “Do not let strangers touch you.”

“You’re touching me without permission. How’s it different?”

“I’m not grabbing your ass or letting my hands wander,” I snort before releasing her.

“Because you’ve already seen and felt everything and don’t need another sampling,” she hisses as I walk away.

My anger is already simmering, but that comment is a chunk of ice on that fury. My shoulders lift and I almost look back at her, but don’t. I clear my throat. “Did you eat at all?”

“I was too nauseous from a fifty-year-old trying to fuck me,” she murmurs.

“Let’s fix that.”

Chapter 7 - Noelle

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