Tenderness filled his features while he took a moment before answering. “I do, but not at the expense of you or us.”
I tilted my head. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” he leaned down and brushed my lips with his, “no more tracking your cycle and taking ovulation tests. We aren’t going to wait on bated breath every month to see if your period starts.” He picked me up and set me on the counter.
I wrapped my long legs around his body. My arms fell around his neck.
He pressed his body against mine. “When we make love, from now on it’s only going to be about us in the moment. No more what if this is the time.” He nuzzled my neck. “You are all I need.”
I ran my fingers through his hair and tried to take solace in his words. “Are you sure? Maybe we could get one of those handmaidens your people were fond of in the bible,” I teased.
He leaned back with a smile in his eyes. “My people?”
“All those men who talked to God. Didn’t they all get handmaidens when their wives couldn’t conceive?”
“I don’t know where you are getting your information from, my dear wife, but those handmaidens were given to their husbands by their wives, and more often than not, it caused a lot of trouble.”
“I know I would want to claw her eyes out and probably maim you if you ever touched another woman like that.”
“Like this?” He captured my lips and hungrily parted them, no longer the man who was nervous about kissing my cheek.
My legs tightened around him. All my emotions poured into him.
He groaned and kissed me deeper, taking his time not to leave any territory in my mouth unexplored. It was a frequent travel destination of his and he knew it all by heart. Each prod and taste of him made my heart race.
Still, I couldn’t help but wonder. I placed my hand on his cheeks, pushing pause on the passion. “Are you sure?” I peered into his green eyes, so alive with passion.
“I definitely don’t want a handmaiden.” His semi-wicked grin appeared. It could never be fully wicked. He was too good.
“You were never getting one,” I whispered.
“I would never want one.” He leaned his forehead against mine. “Delanie, you are my life.”
I ran my hand across his stubbled cheek. “We could . . . adopt.” I always had trouble saying the word.
“Let’s put a pin in that thought until the end of year.”
I wondered if his reluctance came from fear of the process or if he sensed my hesitation. I wasn’t brave enough to ask.
“Okay. I love you.”
“My favorite words.” He picked me up off the counter, trailing kisses across my cheek.
“Where are you taking me?” I tried to be coy, but I knew it was probably one of two places.
“I would like your company in the shower.”
That was my first guess.
~*~
Lying in his arms, I traced circles around his smooth, bare chest, breathing in the clean scent of his bar soap. I still reveled in listening to the strong, steady beat of his heart and the feel of his defined muscles shaped by manual labor. His calloused fingers glided down my arm. A contented sigh escaped his lips.
“Was this your way of getting out of sushi?”
A deep laugh rumbled in his chest. “I should have thought about that. I guess it worked out, though.”
I playfully smacked his chest.
“You want to go now?” he offered.
It had been dark for a while and was well past dinnertime. “I think it’s another night of cereal.” That’s how I cooked dinner.
He breathed a sigh of relief.
“We can go tomorrow.”
“Of course,” he groaned.
It was my turn to laugh. “I look forward to it.”
“Me too,” he lied.
“Uh-huh.” I kissed his chest before I sat up and ran my fingers through my damp, tangled hair.
Peter admired me in the semi-dark room. “My T-shirts have never looked so good.”
I rested my head on my pulled-up knees and smiled down at him. “Thanks to you, I haven’t bought pajamas in four years.”
He turned to his side and rested his head on his propped hand. “It’s been entirely my pleasure.”
I ruffled his mussed hair. “Do you want Cocoa Pebbles or Frosted Flakes?”
“Probably both, but first I’d like you to think about something.”
“What’s up?”
He gave me his most charming smile. “I was thinking it would be nice if we had my family over to give them a tour of our new house.”
I did my best, which wasn’t good at all, to hide the disgust on my face. I knew who he meant by “family.” While my mother-in-law tried to be nicer to me in front of Peter after the blow-up last fall, I wasn’t buying it for a minute. I don’t think my sweet Peter was either, but family was important to him, so he tried to keep the peace whenever he could.
“Avery and Sam have been here. Twice, actually,” I responded. They loved it, though I knew they wondered how we afforded our beautiful home, even if it was the smallest in the neighborhood. It’s not like Peter and I wanted such a nice place, but we had to think of security and eventualities just in case my worst nightmare happened and our secret got out. I mean, I still drove my crappy seven-year-old sedan. Money meant nothing to me other than we could fund our shoe and water charities.
Avery and Sam were smart enough to question if my job working for the online magazine my publisher owned under a different name paid well enough. It didn’t, but it gave me a great platform to bring attention to the causes near and dear to my heart, like clean water for everyone and the mutilation of women and girls around the globe. Plus, it was a legitimate cover. It allowed me to be truthful when I told people I was a writer and content manager, even though doing both jobs was taxing.
The charm in his smile turned strained. “Ma would really like to come see it too.”
My face contorted in disbelief while I scoffed. “Your mother, who declared I was selling drugs to pay for it and that she would never step foot inside this house of cards?”
“Did she say that?” He played innocent while reaching up and tucking some hair behind my ear. “I know she’s not the easiest person to get along with and she’s been unfair to you. But she’s trying, and maybe this is a chance to start mending some fences.”
My eyebrows shot up. “Unfair?”
“How about awful?”
“You’re getting warmer.”
“Baby, please?”
He asked so very little of me. I hated to say no, even though his mother was determined to hate me no matter what I did, and the thought of her here gave me metaphorical hives. And I was suspicious as to why she wanted to visit after being so adamant about never coming over. She only came to our apartment once, and thankfully I wasn’t home at the time. I closed my eyes and let out heavy breaths.
Peter did his best to coax me by sitting up and brushing kisses along my neck.
“I’m above your powers of persuasion now,” I said between shivers.
He didn’t believe a word I said and inched up toward my lips where he skillfully skimmed them. “We’ll have everyone over at the same time just in case you need a buffer.”
“Just in case?”
“Let me rephrase, so you will have a buffer.”
“She’s going to badger us about how we can afford it and she’s going to criticize our lack of furniture. In between that, she’ll make underhanded comments about how I don’t feed you well enough and how she read that tattoo ink gives you cancer. Though she’ll be praying that last part is true.” She had said it under the guise of trying to be helpful a couple of weeks ago, but I saw the evil glint her in eye.
“She doesn’t wish you dead,” he said with no confidence at all. “And I’m a grown man. I don’t need my wife to feed me, nor do I expect her to.”
“Which is lucky for you.”
“I am a lucky
man.”
I placed my hands on his cheeks and took a deep breath. “Stop being so wonderful.”
“So, is that a yes?”
“Peter.”
“I know.” He took my hands from off his face and kissed them. “It would mean a lot to me.” He cinched it right there.
“All right, but it could get ugly if she asks me to submit to a drug test . . . again.”
He chuckled. “She won’t, I promise.”
I wanted to believe that.
Chapter Three
If staring at a blank screen was a contest, I would be the champion. Scenes filled with dialogue always took longer than I liked, but words had meaning. Saying the wrong word could affect the entire story. Just like in real life, one should always be careful to say what one means and mean what one says. It was important that the conversations between Hunter and Laine be precise and not give too much away too soon. The right amount of tension had to be created, all while making it natural. In real life, fights aren’t scripted, which means they’re messy. In books, that same feeling needed to come across.
While I thought about how to craft Laine’s response to Hunter after he basically accused her of lying about how the car accident happened, I did something against the best interest of my mental health. I pulled up one of my biggest critic’s website, blaring Eminem as I went and letting Hunter’s words stew in my mind, You must be remembering wrong. My father would never hurt you.
Hunter refused to believe his father caused the accident that killed him and severely hurt Laine. He wanted to think it was because Laine had a concussion. Laine wanted to blurt the truth, but that was a risk in and of itself. If he didn’t believe her about the accident, he probably wouldn’t believe her about the second life Mr. Black led, even though she had proof. But she also wanted to protect Hunter. Mr. Black was dead now. What good would it do to ruin a dead man’s reputation other than hurting those who still lived?
I should have been reasonable and not searched Ms.-I-Hate-Books’s site. Seriously, I’m not sure why this woman kept reading my books—or any books for that matter. If she ever gave a good review, it was for books everyone else abhorred. Yet she had thousands of followers and at times was quoted by notable sites and other popular critics. Peter and Joan sounded in my head not to torture myself, but I knew sooner or later a nasty quote from her would pop up and slap me in the face. Better to just get it over with. I mean, how much worse could she get than last time when she called A Black Night the perfect cure for insomnia?
It didn’t take me long to find her review of Black Day Dawning. She was reaching new heights of nastiness. The title of her review was, Reading This Book was Indeed a Black Day. My sanity begged me to stop there. I should have listened.
In Ms. Moone’s latest overpriced excuse for literature, you will find yourself reading a train wreck in slow motion. It ran out of steam on the very first page. The chemistry between the supposed hero and heroine was more like a bad case of puppy love with a side of does-anyone-really-care-about-these-two. But if you are looking for a good doormat, then Laine is your girl and doesn’t disappoint. She seems willing at every turn to let Hunter walk all over her without consequence . . .
The rest of the review was more of the same. I was seething. How dare she call Laine a doormat. She was anything but. She had been through hell and was tough as nails. Sure, Hunter was an idiot around her at times, but that was because she confused him. He loved her, but he feared losing their friendship and losing her.
I got up and paced around my office, breathing heavily as I went. Who did this woman who only went by the name of Grace think she was? She was neither gracious nor graceful. She wouldn’t know a good love story if it bit her in the a— . . . dammit, I meant butt! Both Avery and Sam thought Laine and Hunter’s chemistry was off-the-charts hot, as did at least a million other fans.
My phone buzzed on my desk. I was amazed I heard it over the music and the diatribes coursing through my head. I picked it up to find it was Joan. I grinned. It was fitting she would call now. The first time I talked to her, she was in the same kind of dark mood I was in now. She had answered the phone, “What in the hell do you want?” I knew then she was the lawyer for me. She’d mistaken my number for her ex-boyfriend’s. We still laughed about it to this day. She had become a trusted friend and confidant. It was why she was my agent and lawyer. I learned quickly there were many willing to take advantage of you, and Joan could sniff them out in a nanosecond. And could she ever work out a deal.
I turned down my music and put her on speaker. “Hello,” I growled, not on purpose. It was a residual effect.
“Let me guess, you’re reading reviews again.”
I threw myself in my chair. “Guilty.”
“Why do you keep doing this to yourself?”
“I think I have impostor syndrome.”
She laughed a deep-throated laugh that matched her sultry alto voice perfectly. “What in the hell is that? And please tell me it’s not contagious.”
I rubbed my hands over my face. “I feel like one day everyone is going to figure out I have no idea what I’m doing, and they will all agree with the Graces of the world.”
“You know that’s a crock, right? Do you think everyone is given seven-figure advances? Thank you, by the way. My new Porsche loves me.”
I rolled my eyes. “You’re welcome.”
“Oh, don’t get all high and mighty on me. I donated a nice sum to Sweet Feet.”
“You’re a saint,” I teased. “But, really, thank you.”
“Don’t get all sappy on me, kid.”
“You’re barely old enough to have given birth to me.”
“When you’re in your late forties, you can start calling everyone kid.”
I laughed at her. “Is there a reason for your call?”
“I just thought you would want to know that the first few chapters you sent to me were bloody brilliant.”
“Really?”
“I wouldn’t lie to you. You’re my meal ticket.”
“There’s that.”
“Del, get those haters’ voices out of your head. You’re the real deal. Those women with bad bangs who obviously have nothing better to do than read all day and criticize people while surrounding themselves with a million cats are lonely and miserable. You should feel sorry for them.”
I don’t know how she came up with bad bangs, but I appreciated her attempts to cheer me up. “Yeah, I’ll work on that.”
“Forget them. Way more people love your books than hate them. Don’t let the negative reviews outshine the overwhelming positive ones.”
“That’s what Peter says.”
“Listen to him.”
“I’ll try.”
“Now get back to work. I’m looking at a townhome on the Upper East Side today and it’s not cheap. Hugs and kisses.” She hung up.
I stared at my phone for a moment. Joan sparked a thought. I swiveled my chair so I was facing my computer.
“Hunter, there is a long list of people in this town who’ve never believed me or in me. I always hoped you would never be one of them. If you can’t trust my word by now, then maybe it’s time,” her voiced cracked, “that we finally prove to everyone they were right about us. We don’t belong together.”
My heart broke for Laine. A tear leaked down my cheek. Another chapter down. Now off to have lunch with Sam and Avery. At least one meal I ate today wouldn’t be cereal.
I stopped by a deli I frequented and picked up salads to take to the office where almost everyone in the Decker family worked. Though I wondered how long Sam would continue to do so. She only worked part time as it was, and now that the Sidelined Wife was so lucrative, it seemed to only be a matter of time before she quit. Not to mention she was planning a wedding. Well, sort of. Her mom was planning it and Sam was doing her best to put it off, which seemed odd. She and Reed were inseparable, and I thought for sure they would both be eager to tie the knot. I knew Reed wanted to sign t
hat NDA, the one she mentioned in her most talked about post about making her next husband sign a non-disclosure agreement before he could see her naked. It was pure gold. Reed was ready to get down to business and was practically groping her at every family function whenever Cody wasn’t in their presence. Sam didn’t seem to mind one bit. Sometimes I wondered if . . . well . . . I wondered if Sam was going against her mother’s wishes and . . . let’s just say Sam was glowing a lot more the last few weeks and Reed was over-the-top happy. Peter said it was none of our business when I brought it up, and he didn’t want to think about his sister that way.
When I arrived at Decker and Sons Landscaping on the outskirts of Clearfield, the sleepy town we all lived in, my sisters-in-law looked relieved that I had bought lunch. No one, including me, trusted my cooking skills. Peter tried and was lucky I hadn’t given him food poisoning yet. It was bound to happen. My good husband and his brother were not there. Too bad. There was something about the way Peter looked when he was sweaty and dirty that was quite inspirational. I supposed I would have to wait until later that night to be inspired. Except he probably wouldn’t be home by the time I left to volunteer at the shelter before I headed to my “class.”
My cover for attending the RCIA classes with Father Alan was I was helping at a women’s shelter. Which was true. I always dropped off bags of food, clothing, and diapers before I headed to my class. Most of the time I also helped with things like writing resumes, organizing donations, playing with the children, even vacuuming if needed.
I guess missing Peter gave me something to look forward to tomorrow. I was going to need something since his family was all coming over to tour our home tomorrow night and have dessert—meaning store-bought ice cream, and if we got real fancy, hot fudge. There was a good chance I would burn that in the microwave, though.
Avery and Sam smiled at me when I arrived, and both got up to hug me. They were both huggers. It took me a while to get used to it, but now I found I looked forward to it, even if I tensed up every time we touched. It wasn’t in my nature, or was it that I wasn’t nurtured like that? Probably both. Peter was the exception. I melted into him after that awkward first date where he was the stiff one.
The Secretive Wife (More Than a Wife Series Book 2) Page 3
