Page 54 of Accidental Groom
“Or Walmart, I’m not picky.”
“Christ.”
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We don’t stay at the penthouse. At least, not tonight — not when something’s not quite right with her, not when she’s tired. I don’t want to push things.
So on the drive back upstate, I let the silence stretch for a while, the soft hum of music playing through the speakers the only sound between us. She watches the stars out the window, her body angled away from me just enough for me to notice.
I let myself talk when I pull into the neighborhood. “You’ve been quiet.”
“Just tired.”
“You kept going rigid when I touched you earlier.”
That gets her. She turns, and I glance, watching the way her lips part as her brain works. “I wasn’t,” she lies, her cheeks heating. I shoot her a knowing look, and she folds. “Okay, fine, I was. I was just… I don’t know, Harry, overwhelmed.”
My brows knit. “By what? The baby? Shopping? The city?”
“You.”
I let my foot linger on the brake at the stop sign, turning to look at her. “Me?”
She sighs, her head tipping back onto the headrest, her shoulders shaking with…silent laughter?“You, being affectionate.”
I blink. “Iamyour husband.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know, but it’s still weird. You’re not normally… you know.” Her cheeks flush deeper in the dim car light. “I feel weird. My body is doing weird things. My emotions are all over the place, and everything you do makes me feel like I’m either going to cry or fucking pounce on you.”
I snort. “Pounce?”
She turns her head away from me. “Don’t make me repeat it.”
“You’rehorny?”
Her groan is muffled by her hands as she pitches forward, burying her face in them. “Jesus.”
NowI’mthe one laughing, fully, boldly, for the first time in far too long. The idea of her pushing me away, blushing, grumbling at me in the city, all because the hormones are making herhorny,is just too much to bear.
It cracks something open in my chest, something warm and bright.
I reach over and brush her knee with the back of my knuckles, letting off the brake and turning into the drive before hitting the button to open the gate. “If that’s what it is, Elena, I can absolutely help you with that.”
“You’re not serious.”
“Oh, I’mveryserious.”
She hides her smile behind her hands, but I still see it. Something about it loosens a knot in my chest I didn’t even realize was there.
I’m still chuckling when the trees part, my headlights illuminating the circular drive outside the estate, but the smile dies on my lips the moment I see it.
There, parked in front of the front door, is a sleek, midnight-blue sports car I know all too well.
Jaguar F-Type ZP. Limited edition.
George’s.
He’s standing at the top of the front steps, one hand in the pocket of his linen trousers, the other holding his phone. His posture screams impatience and entitlement, staring me down like he owns the place, likewe’rethe ones who should explain ourselves.
