Page 95 of The Rancher Married the Wrong Sister
“Not as much as you like her—”
“Inever—”
“HR told me about your call. You had those three women who were spreading gossip about your wife suspended.”
“Because gossipisa violation. It’s in the handbook.”
“And yet it has never been enforced until now.”
His jaw clenched. “What’s your point, Roxanne?”
“That there’s hope for you yet.”
“Then I’ll have to apologize.”
Roxanne frowned. “For what?”
“For having to tell you straight that you’re dumber than you think.”
“Mr. Launcelot!” He had never been this rude, but she couldn’t find it in herself to be furious...because of what she saw in his eyes.
“I want her,” Gavine said edgily. “I won’t deny that. But I neither like nor need her. And that’s why she’s better off without someone like me.”
Chapter Seven
TODAY, DAMMIT.
Gavine stared at his reflection in the master bathroom mirror the next morning, gripping the marble countertop as he made the promise to himself. Today he would finally get rid of his wife so he could have his old life back and stop driving himself crazy with dreams about fucking her.
Three days had passed since he had tasted her for the first time in the limo. Three days since he had avoided her like the plague. Three days since he had tried to make himself forget the way she’d sobbed his name when he’d made her come apart with his mouth.
But he couldn’t.
And he had no fucking idea why.
He stalked through the house, his boots echoing against the hardwood floors. The massive chandelier cast shadows across the mahogany staircase, but all he could think about was Wednesday’s taste still burning on his tongue. The way she’d looked at him afterward with those wide violet eyes, like he’d given her the world instead of just taking what he wanted.
The way her hands had trembled as she’d tried to fix her hair, cheeks flushed, lips swollen from his kiss.
Ah, fuck.
He was getting hard just thinking about it.
This house had always been his sanctuary, every corner designed to remind him of his power and control. Twenty-foot ceilings, Persian rugs, fancy artworks. But lately, none of it mattered. All he could think about was one innocent wife who hummed while she cooked and tasted like honey.
Morning came and went, but he had yet to catch a glimpse of said wife, and he started feeling on edge. What if she had run away? The logical part of his brain knew she wouldn’t dare, couldn’t afford to lose everything. But logic had taken a vacation three days ago when he’d buried his face between her thighs.
Worse, what if she had run away with that guitar-playing jackass from the retirement center?
The thought made him want to put his fist through a wall. He remembered the easy way that Noel had smiled at her, how the bastard had touched her shoulder like he had the right. Gavine wanted to hunt him down and explain exactly why touching his wife was a career-limiting move.
Except she wasn’t really his wife. This was just a business arrangement, remember? A temporary inconvenience until Jessica returned.
The reminder should have been reassuring. Instead, it made him feel like breaking things.
He found himself gravitating toward the kitchen, drawn by the scent of fresh bread and Clarice’s off-key humming. The heart of his house had always been the housekeeper’s domain, but lately Wednesday had claimed it too. Flour-dusted dresses, musical laughter, violet eyes bright with contentment as she helped with breakfast.
Today, the kitchen felt wrong without her.
