Page 45 of Playboy Pitcher
Ben didn’t knock this time.
In fact, he didn’t say a word to me. Not even when I came out wearing the same outfit I wore the night we met. It’s not like I had much to choose from. I packed for two, three days tops. However, I chose this particular ensemble for nostalgia and as a statement. It seemed only fitting to legally bind myself to a man I barely knew wearing a T-shirt proclaimingSinners Are Winners.
“Is this a test?”
Ben’s sharp tone drags me out of my fog. Glancing up, I find him leaning over the hood of my car, staring at me with suspicion in his eyes. “I’m sorry, what?”
“You, asking me if I want to drive back,” he says, dangling my keys between his fingers. “Is it some kind of test? Are we going to get in the car and five minutes into the trip, you’ll accuse me of being a chauvinist and then give me a two-hour-long rant about gender equality and stereotypical marital roles?”
Rolling my eyes, I fold the marriage certificate and shove it in my purse. “That doesn’t even make any sense.”
“Sweetheart, you faked being asleep for six hours, heard my end of the conversation with the hotel manager, and still accused me of switching rooms so I could get you in bed. Nothing you do makes a whole hell of a lot of sense.”
Jesus Christ.Three more weeks of this because I let my guard down last night. Stomping around the front of the car to the driver’s side, I snatch the keys out of his hand. “We don’t have time for this. Get in.”
I brace myself for an argument. To my surprise, Ben doesn’t say a word. Instead, he just smirks and strolls around to the passenger’s side like we’re out for a leisurely Sunday drive.
Muttering to myself, I get behind the wheel and slam the door. I’d love nothing more than to clip his kneecaps, but, unfortunately, now that we’re married, that’s considered domestic abuse.
And possibly aggravated assault.
And a hit and run.
Sliding in beside me, Ben reaches between his knees and adjusts the seat, guiding it back to accommodate his long legs. “Well, what are you waiting for? Let’s go home, Mrs. LaCroix.”
“A, it’s not my home,” I snap as I start the car and pull into traffic. “AndB, that’s not my name.”
“Of course.” He laughs. “I forgot, you’re a progressive woman. Do you prefer McBaine-LaCroix?”
I glare at him out of the corner of my eye. “You amuse yourself, don’t you?”
His grin widens. “So, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”
I stiffen instinctively, my shoulders tensing so hard they drive toward my ears. It’s a reaction that doesn’t go unnoticed.
“Okay, relax,” he says, holding his hands up in surrender. “We just got hitched. I’m not going to ask you to have my babies.”
I laugh.
“Yet.”
I shake my head, my muscles relaxing. “Sorry. Knee-jerk reaction. What do you want to know?”
“Why McBaine? Is there a reason you gave up the Mays name? You said yourself it opens more than doors; it opens bank vaults.”
Shit. I was waiting for this.
“That’s the problem,” I grumble.
He tilts his chin toward me, creases wrinkling his forehead. “I’m sorry, but I’m not fluent in cryptic. Care to translate?”
Not really, but avoiding this question will only lead to others. “When I left at eighteen, I wanted to leave everything behind. I didn’t want to be Roger Mays’s daughter anymore. I needed my own identity, so I gave myself a new one.” I shoot him a quick glance while pulling onto the highway, not shocked to see that vertical line between his eyes. “McBaine was my mother’s maiden name,” I clarify.
His silence is like a punch to the gut. This is why I don’t lower my walls. It gives someone the opportunity to dig more scars. Clamping my lips together, I shut down.
That’s enough show and tell.
“That’s…brave.” The tone in his voice rattles me. It’s not mocking. I wish it were. It would be so much easier to hate him. To shove him in a box with all the others. Instead, he sounds almost impressed.
