Page 42 of My Wife
“I don’t know why this matters.”
“Because,” I say, intending for it to be a complete sentence.
He crosses his arms in front of his chest and slowly asks, “Because why?”
“Because you’re not the king, lord, president, or prime minister of me.”
“But I am your boss.”
“True, but behind every boss is a great assistant.” I beam a smile.
“Goodbye, Jessica.”
“It’s Jess.” I bunch up my lips. “You’re arguing with me just to argue, huh?” It’s like a sport with the guy.
“I could say the same about you.”
“No, I’m just looking at the sparkly, rainbow-filled bright side.”
“No glitter is allowed in this house.”
“Is that another rule?”
“You’re the witch bride. You probably cut off locks of guys’ hair and use them in anti-love potions.”
“That’s disturbing and not at all true. Yes, I was a bride-to-be. No, I’m not a witch.”
“A real ray of sunshine,” he says glibly.
Keeping chipper is what gets me through. “Do you prefer cloudy days?” I lived in those for nearly my whole life and don’t want to go back. Can’t.
I tell myself to see the good in Liam beyond the lonely man who built up walls to protect himself from something. But what? From the outside, this guy has it all—a great career, a family, and a nice home—after he decorates. Well, almost. Where is his wife, his queen?
His gaze floats over mine, sending a chill that quickly warms over when I glimpse a teeny tiny tease of a twinkle in his eyes. It’s there, hiding.
I say, “I just know we’re going to be friends.”
He scoffs. “Don’t need those either.”
My heart pinches. That’s rainy-day thinking. “Sure you do. Everyone does.”
He leans in, close enough that I can see the fine freckles across his nose and the depth in his blue-gray eyes. My breath catches in my throat.
Liam’s voice is a low rumble when he says, “I don’t want this.”
“Then what do you want?” I risk asking because what else is there to say to that?
“I want my old life back.”
“Seems too late for that and sometimes our old lives are overrated.”
“Mine wasn’t. It was perfect.”
“Alone, up here in your tower?”
His throat bobs on a swallow.
“I get it. You were free to do what you wanted whenever you wanted.” I’m well out of line, leapfrogged right over it, but his smug, stoic expression draws the bold truth out of me.
