Page 86 of Cruelest Contract
I do feel safe. I always feel safe with him. That’s not the reason my heart is jumping around. We’re alone, just like I wanted. But reality is finally hitting me that I really haven’t spent much time with Julian. And now he’s my husband.
He steps away from the door and studies me. “It’s not too late,” he says.
“For what?” I ask, panicked that my inner conflict shows up on my face.
“To get out of town for a few days. We can go anywhere you want, Cecilia.”
I take a look around the cabin. The floorplan is wide open with a full kitchen, a dining nook, a comfortable living room area. There are no walls around the bedroom. An interior door presumably leads to a bathroom. The square footage is significantly larger than my one bedroom Arizona apartment and yet the vibe is far cozier with knotty hardwood floors and rustic reclaimed wood panels nailed to the walls. Cobalt blue ceramic vases have been placed on every table. All are filled with flowers. Pink roses, naturally. My favorite. The same color as the petals that are strewn around the base of the king-sized bed.
“I wouldn’t want to go anywhere else,” I say. “This is perfect.”
Julian nods and I could swear there’s a trace of smugness on his face. He knew I would love the cabin. I only wish I could read him half as clearly as he reads me.
My eyes stray to a brown leather recliner and I do a double take. “Is that a weighted blanket? Do you sleep with one too?”
As soon as the question leaves my mouth I realize how silly it sounds. There’s no way the very thick pink knitted weighted blanket folded over the back of the chair came from his room.
He watches as my thoughts evolve. “It’s for you,” he says. “I figured you could always use a spare.”
More than ever, I’m overwhelmed by how much trouble he goes to in order to make sure I’m comfortable.
“I used to have so much trouble sleeping,” I admit. “My old therapist recommended trying one. She explained how the weight calms the nervous system and reduces anxiety in people with a history of trauma.”
What am I doing?I should sew my lips shut. Babbling about therapy and trauma isn’t exactly hot.
But Julian doesn’t appear bothered. He listens to every word and nods. “Makes sense.”
No follow up comments pop into my head. I’m a blank slate.
A small black remote is lying on the coffee table and Julian picks it up. He fiddles with the controls for a few seconds and a whirring sound emits from every direction while shades gradually lower over the windows. The lights dim to half power.
As promised, my barrel-sized rolling suitcase is already here, parked alongside the wall. A far smaller black duffel bag, presumably Julian’s, sits beside it.
I wrack my brain for a sexy comment. None are available. I should be capable of doing something more spicy and alluring than gawking in the middle of the room.
Tye’s bottle is still cradled in my arms. The last time I had alcohol was the night out in Laramie. Julian was amused when I didn’t take his warning seriously. Then I proved him right by getting tipsy and falling into his arms. Still, maybe I could use a little help to loosen up.
“Should we celebrate with a drink?” I ask.
Julian prowls closer. He plucks the bottle from my hand and considers the label. “We’ll get to that,” he says and sets the bottle down on the coffee table.
There’s no longer a need for me to be wearing his tux jacket. It’s not cold in here. If anything, my skin feels overheated,feverish. I blame my pounding heart for turning my blood into hot soup.
I remove the jacket and fold it over my arm, though I already miss being covered with something that belongs to him. “Thanks for the loan.”
Julian tosses the jacket on the sofa without taking his eyes off me. “How’s your hand?”
“Oh, it’s fine. I already took the bandage off.”
My voice kind of falls away on the last syllable because Julian takes my hand to see for himself. He examines my forefinger and touches his lips to the tiny cut.
“I’m sorry about that,” he says. “And about the dance too. I know you explicitly said you didn’t want any dancing.”
Yes, I did say that. It’s an old hangup, going way back to the era when I was still limping and spending three days a week at physical therapy. My hard and fast No Dancing rule simply became a habit.
“I really didn’t mind,” I say. “It was obviously important to your father.”
I’m unprepared when a deeply engraved memory chooses this moment to surface. Another day, another couple’s first wedding dance and my brother gazing at his bride as if she was his whole world. I’d forgotten my childish vow to marry a man who looked at me the exact same way.
