Page 62 of Cherished Lands
He walked in looking work-roughened and slightly dirty. My pussy wanted me to climb him like a tree, but now wasn't the time. Tonight, my brain was in charge.
"Hey, Princess." He planted a firm kiss on my lips.
I watched him shrug off his coat then followed him up the stairs to the loft.
"Chase showed up drunk to the construction site this morning,"
He froze halfway through unbuttoning his flannel. "He what?"
"He was operating the forklift. He nearly hit one of the workers, destroyed thousands in equipment." I yanked my sweater over my head, grabbing the oversized t-shirt I'd taken to sleeping in. His t-shirt.
"Chase wouldn't—" Elliot's jaw hardened as he pulled off his thermal. "He's just stressed. With all these changes to the business, trying to find his place..."
"He could've killed someone." I fought with my bra clasp, hands shaking.
"You're exaggerating." He grabbed his shower kit, the one I'd organized last week.
"Am I?" My voice rose as I pulled on sleep shorts. "Ask Mike. Ask any of the crew who had to dive out of the way when he knocked over those supply stacks."
"Look," Elliot ran a hand through his hair, leaving it standing on end. "I know you mean well, but Chase is my brother. I've known him his entire life. Sometimes, he just needs to blow off steam."
"At seven in the morning? With heavy machinery?" I watched him grab his towel—the green one, always thegreen one.
"You don't understand."
"Then help me understand!" I stepped closer, willing him to open up to me. "Because from where I stood, watching him stumble to his truck and drive away drunk, this looked a lot bigger than blowing off steam."
His eyes flashed. "Right, because three weeks of marriage makes you an expert on my family?"
"No, but?—"
"This isn't your problem to fix, Tessa. This isn't even your family. Or did you forget this is just business?"
My chest tightened. A telltale burning built in my nose, and my eyes welled.Fake, fake, fake marriage. No reason for my heart to be breaking right now.
Suffocating silence stretched out. The echo of his harsh words lingered between us, sucking the air from the room. I quickly grabbed my pillow from our bed. "I care about Chase too," I said, heading for the stairs. "And I care about you enough to tell you the truth, even when it hurts."
"What are you doing?"
"What does it look like?" I clutched my pillow tighter, refusing to look back. "I'm sleeping on the couch."
"Don't be ridiculous. Come back up."
"No."
He made a sound somewhere between frustration and disgust. "Fine. Be stubborn."
I hunched on the couch with my back to the loft. The sound of his bare feet thudding down the stairs was swiftly followed by the slam of the bathroom door. There was a whooshing hiss as the shower started up—that temperamental water pressurehe'd promised to fix next weekend. I curled into the tiny couch, pulling the throw blanket—the one his nana had crocheted—tight around my shoulders.
Pipes rattled as he shut off the water. The bathroom door opened, releasing a cloud of steam. I heard him pad across the hardwood, up the stairs.
Silence.
The mattress springs squeaked restlessly. It sounded like he was tossing and turning, shifting position. Again. And again.
I stared at the shadows playing across the ceiling and listened to him not sleeping. Part of me wanted to go up there, to slip back into our bed, into the warmth of his arms. But his words echoed in my head.
This isn't even your family.
