Page 210 of King of Pain
“Wow,” he says, rising slowly to his feet. “Quite the romantic build-up there, Pacini. I'm completely swept off my feet.”
I stalk toward him, grab the front of hist-shirt in both fists, and pull him close.
“Marry me, you big, gorgeous idiot.”
Chance laughs, but his brows knit. “What is this? What’s going on with you?”
I release his shirt, take a step back, and lift my phone. “Spousal. Testimonial. Privilege.”
He blinks. Once. Twice. Gulp.
I scroll and read aloud, “The spouse of a criminal defendant who is called as a witness by the prosecution may choose to but cannot be compelled to testify against his or her spouse about events that occurred—” I emphasize the next words, “—beforeandduringthe marriage.”
I look up. He’s still staring at me.
“I’ll confirm it with Jen, but that’s direct from Stanford Law.”
He shifts again. “Ant, why are you—”
“I know what you did for me,” I say, stepping closer, cutting him off. I slide my hand behind his head, pressing our foreheads together. “I know what it cost you.”
He stays quiet. But his eyes—God, his eyes say everything.
“The things you do for the people you love… it rocks me to the core, Chance.” I cup his face in my hands. “So now, it’s my turn to protect you.”
He still doesn’t say a word.
Instead, he leans in and kisses me. Soft. Meaningful. His hands on my hips, mine still holding his face. I don’t want to let go.
When he finally pulls back, he stares at me for a beat and says, very calmly, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Then he turns and heads toward the bedroom.
“I love you,” I call after him.
He pauses in the doorway, glances over his shoulder. “I love you too.”
Then a pause.
“And… Ant?”
“Yeah?”
A half smile pulls at his mouth. “Getting hitched won’t be necessary—but I’d marry you any day of the week, Beautiful.”
A couple hours later, the scent of garlic, herbs, and roasted tomatoes fills the air as I finish making dinner. I’m tossing the pasta in the pan one last time when I hear the stool creak behind me.
Chance is seated at the island, chin in hand, that slow, lazy smile spreading across his face as he watches me like I’m his ownprivate FoodTV show. I grab one of the stuffed mushrooms I made for an appetizer off the tray, still warm, and press it gently to his lips.
“Open,” I say.
He raises a brow and takes the whole thing in one bite. His eyes flutter closed. A low, borderline pornographic moan vibrates from his chest.
“Oh my God,” he groans. “What evenisthat?”
“Just a little something to tide you over.” I smirk, handing him the bottle of Cabernet I uncorked earlier to breathe. “Make yourself useful. Pour us a glass. Then go sit at the table, I’ll bring the pasta out.”
He laughs and slides off the stool, bottle in hand, while I carry the salad to the dining table. By the time I return with the big serving bowl of spaghetti, he’s filled both glasses and is already seated kitty-corner from my spot.
