Not So Nice Guy
Page 40

He laughs and shakes his head. “Why on earth are you thinking about that?”
“I’m wondering if we’d be able to afford to…”
“Buy it?”
He really has no idea what I’m hinting at.
“No, no—to replace it if we break it.”
His brows ratchet up to his hairline and then there’s a knock on the door. “Room service.”
YES. My milkshake! I shove Ian out of the way and run for the door. “Oh, and PS, I’m not sharing my dessert.”
“Even with your husband?” he asks, dipping into the bathroom to turn on the shower.
HUSBAND! My heart skips a beat. My stomach, however, does not.
“Cute.” I smile. “But no.”
23
S A M
Even though I have a few months left on my apartment lease, I move in with Ian that Sunday after we check out of the hotel. We left a large tip for the cleaning staff, but I still feel bad. For 48 hours, we consummated our marriage in that room. If there was a surface on which you can have sex, my butt was on it. Sorry, next occupants.
On the way to my apartment, nerves creep in and I suggest we could keep living separately.
“Why?”
Because I’m a lot to handle and I don’t want you to regret marrying me.
That’s the truth, but I water it down. “Just…I don’t know. In case you want to slow things down.”
“I don’t.”
“In case you get sick of me.”
“I won’t.”
Alrighty then.
Moving doesn’t take us long. Most everything I own, Ian has a better version of. My pots and pans are antiques, and not in a good way. My bed creaks and is too small to fit us both comfortably. My bathroom rug is new, but it’s pink and floral. Ian gives me the choice whether to take it or leave it, and I smile because deep down, I know he would let me put it in his bathroom, but I spare him.
I bring over my clothes and Ian allots me half the space in his closet and dresser.
“I really don’t need that much room.”
“Why?”
I don’t know exactly how to phrase it, but it feels like I’m coming over for an extended sleepover. I want to make my presence here as negligible as possible, that way he won’t get annoyed and divorce me. I keep telling him I don’t need much space and I can just leave my toothbrush under the sink, but he puts it in the holder beside his and insists this is my house too now.
“Okay, then I want to sleep on the right side of the bed.”
He laughs and walks out of the room. “Not gonna happen.”
We’ll see about that.
I keep waiting for things to get more complicated, for us to hit the inevitable roadblock. For example, Ian could say, Oh, by the way, I secretly like to train birds and I keep a dozen foul-mouthed parrots in the garage. Or he could open the guest bedroom door to a mountain of trash and soiled adult diapers sliding out.
I check every nook and cranny of his house while I move in, looking for secret meth labs or size 11 stilettos, but even his guest room closet is organized and tidy. How disturbing! I would have preferred a dead body.
By Sunday night, when we’re sitting on his couch, spooning spaghetti into our mouths as fast as we can, I realize my fears might be unfounded.
“This is pretty great. We should have married each other ages ago,” I say, mouth full.
His eyes slice to me and I give him a big, toothy, spaghetti grin.
“Wow, gorgeous. I guess the honeymoon period really is over.”
I smirk and go back to my food. All that moving worked up my appetite.
“I plugged my phone charger into the outlet on the right side of the bed—y’know, because it’s my side.”
“Huh.” He nods. “My is a really strange way to pronounce your.”
“Come on! Don’t you want to be my protector, the one sleeping near the door in case someone breaks in to murder us?”
“Sure, but what if they come through the window?” he asks.
“Good point. I’ll take the left side, you take the axe-murderer window.”
I beam. Our first example of healthy conflict resolution as a married couple!
Normally, after dinner, I head back to my apartment to sleep. I’m so used to the ritual that I load my plate in the dishwasher and head straight for the door. I’m slipping my shoes on when Ian’s shadow falls over me.
“What are you doing?”
“Going ho—” I pause and laugh. “Oh my gosh!”
I turn off autopilot and kick off my shoes. Ian leans down and hooks his hands under my arms to lift me back to my feet.
“Leaving me already?” he teases. “We’ve only been married two days. Who is he, what’s his name?”
“Bad Ian.”
I spin around and he tugs me into him. My hands hit his chest.
“Sorry, I guess things are happening so fast it’s taking my brain a little while to catch up.”
“We can slow down if you want.”
“How?”
He thinks about it for a second and shrugs. “I’m not sure, actually. I could sleep on the couch if you want?”
I think I give him a perfectly executed look that says, Are you fucking insane?
Later that night, I walk into our bedroom after brushing my teeth and find Ian, shirtless, reading in bed.
I hide my smile and scurry to crawl under the blankets beside him.
“Thanks again for being my fleshy axe shield.”
He grunts before going back to his book. I follow his lead and pull my Kindle onto my lap, but there’s no reading happening. I sit there, studying Ian’s bedroom and taking in the newly added details. A candle and delicate jewelry case sit up on the dresser beside his cologne. One of my spring scarves hangs on the doorknob of the closet because I don’t want to forget to wear it in the morning. My antique floor lamp in the corner brings a feminine touch to the otherwise masculine space.
Sitting here, I have a giddy, anxious feeling in the pit of my stomach, and I wonder how long it will last. Days? Years?
I glance toward Ian out of the corner of my eye. His gaze is on his book. He’s been a source of calm throughout all this, and I wonder if, under all those abs of steel, maybe he feels anxious too? If maybe he’s just a little bit better at hiding it?
He doesn’t say a word as I study him. He turns a page in his book and I scoot closer until our hips touch. Then I reach over and drag my pillow over so I’m propped up beside him. He has a king bed, so we don’t have to be crushed together in the very center, but feeling his skin on mine unknots my stomach. I take the first deep breath of the day.
For three years I’ve trained myself to ignore my feelings for Ian. I never imagined he could possibly feel the same way I do, and now here we are married, living together, reading in bed.
“You okay?” he asks.
I nod and lean my head against his shoulder. His arm dips around the small of my back so he can grab my hip and drag me even closer. I’m basically sitting on his lap.
He must realize my brain is going a million miles a minute because he asks if I want him to read his book aloud. I nod and close my eyes and listen to his voice, deep and steady as he picks up right where he left off. It doesn’t take long for my heart to mimic the rise and fall of his chest so we’re breathing in sync.
His voice is so soothing, like the sensation of sinking into a warm bath on a cold winter day.
I’m so close to drifting off when I speak up. My voice sounds drowsy and soft.
“Hey Ian?”
He pauses reading.
“You know I’m in love with you, right?”
His heart thumps against my back and his breathing quickens. There’s a long, heavy silence, and I blink one eye open to look up at him. He’s staring down, studying my face with intense focus. My words clearly caught him off guard.
“Once again—years.”
I smile.
“Say it again.”
“Which part?”
His mouth tips down and captures mine. His poor book doesn’t stand a chance now. We’re supposed to be sleeping and resting up for work tomorrow, but instead, Ian strips me out of my pajamas and presses a kiss to every patch of skin he can find. His lips hit the center of my chest and he tells me he loves me too. He moves lower and kisses my naval and tells me again. The words are muffled, but he says them so many times there’s no way to miss them.