Unwillfully Wed to My Valentine (Fire at Will #1)

Chapter Twenty

According to my calculations, I’m bad at math.

Amber

Quite briefly yesterday, I was attracted to my husband.

Understandably, this is vexing information.

Considering we are both seated in the center of a posh living room—creating our elementary level Valentine card shoe boxes to put on our desks in ten days—I should not still be thinking that Liam…is…very pretty.

My eyes flick toward him, toward the hyper-serious expression he’s lasering into his white shoe box as he—tediously—decorates it with the most adorable array of flocked bears. He’s built an entire park for the tiny things.

He’s wearing plain pink pj’s tonight that match the heart ones I’ve seen him in before, leaving me to wonder if he bought them as a set, leaving me to wonder why I still think the cutie patootie is plenty masculine despite them.

Maybe it’s the expression.

The severity, the concentration, the particular way he’s making sure his box is perfect.

Or maybe it’s the way he’s not been terribly evil to me since we got married.

He’s still definitely evil. He practically kidnapped me from the safe, warm, loving arms of my sister and trapped me in his room until I communicated with him like an adult who knows how married adults communicate…which is with vulnerability and trust, in case anyone’s wondering…but. Like.

His behavior hasn’t been the selfish disregard I remember.

It’s made me feel anything but the abandonment I’ve tried to process for years.

If he cared about me enough to hunt me down like this and cash in on a napkin promise, if he cares about me enough to fight me for my own good, why did he leave me stranded after we graduated?

How much of a burden on me did he think he was?

How much of a burden on me did I make him feel like?

Sure, he was always getting into stupid fights and causing easily avoided trouble, then being wholly unapologetic whenever I explained why he was wrong, but I kept explaining, didn’t I?

Did he not notice that I also didn’t exactly have any friends?

Shaking my head, I let go of the past before it has a chance to hurt me worse, and I open up my Burrito Supreme. Liam has already finished his Taco Bell dinner and given me the wrappers, which I have cut and folded into lotus flowers for my box. Among the flowers, I’ve adhered Taco Bell packets with cute sayings on them like You’re so my type and I’m the hot one .

It’s a childish counter to a fight that only I know about.

Basically, Liam’s not allowed to be the hot one.

He is the cute one.

I sigh.

If I try to call Limoncella and talk about these weird feelings, I know exactly what she’ll say:

Oh no, I’m attracted to my billionaire husband, who is completely in love with me. Boohoo.

And then she would hang up on me.

Before texting: Soo, about that yacht?

She already believes Liam’s in love with me.

I’m not as confident, but I also just don’t know what else to call the care he’s expressed.

Nothing he’s done so far has been terribly difficult or self- sacrificing, but the amount of consideration and thought and time he’s put into everything he’s had to fight me every step of the way on?

I sigh again.

“Bambi,” he says, and my heart overreacts. “Are you okay?”

“Hm? Yeah. Of course. Why?”

“You keep sighing.”

“I do?” I do? Like a crushing tween or something? Ewww.

“Yes? Is your food okay? You’ve been nibbling at your burritos like a cute little mouse for a while now.” A soft, teasing smile touches his lips. “If your food’s gone cold, I can reheat it for you.”

He just oozes consideration and thoughtfulness, doesn’t he?

“It’s fine,” I quip. “I’m just breathing. Everything’s fine.”

Silence. Tense silence.

I’d kick myself if I could. Since I can’t, I close my eyes and curse instead. I had a tone. And I know it. And he doesn’t deserve it just for checking on me. I need to apologize.

“Did I do something wrong?” he asks, gently.

I do not want to look back at him. It might break my heart if I do. So I fluff my lotus flowers instead. “No, no. You haven’t. I’m sorry. I’m just…” Thinking about you. And the way you sounded yesterday when I mindlessly dropped myself in your lap. Husky rough, desperate , wanting. That voice showed up in my dreams last night. I fell asleep wondering how I’d describe it in a book. Wondering how I’d keep myself from letting it take up paragraphs.

It wasn’t just hot. It was sexy.

And I do not use that word.

But, for the first time in my life, I wanted to throw myself at someone, and it felt very…weird. Odd. Liam . It felt very Liam. Like he’s always been the way I was seeing him for just a moment, and yet I’d never noticed how deeply attractive he was before.

My throat feels excessively dry when I swallow, and I don’t think they put enough sauce in my burrito.

“You’re just…” he coaxes, letting his voice trail. When I don’t immediately hop in, he finishes, “Thinking about me.”

I tense.

The teasing leaves his tone. “Wait, really?”

“D-don’t be a narcissist, Liam.”

“I do have some rather self-centered compulsions, but my therapist assured me they weren’t technically narcissistic.”

“Before you fired him,” I mutter.

“Lovely times we had together, while he was assuring me I was an excellent specimen of the human race. Shame it all went downhill from there.”

Excellent specimen of the human race does about sum Liam up.

When I glance back at him, he’s smiling down at a pink flocked bear, which he is making ride down the little slide he built out of paint and pipecleaners and a toilet paper roll.

He’s just such a cutie .

I cannot possibly find him attractive in a romantic way. I like big, tough, tattooed sorts, who run illegal fight clubs, and don’t mind being stabbed. Given my irrational temper at times, an interest in stabbing is somewhat required.

Liam watches My Little Pony on his lunch break.

He casually mentioned tying me up in his bedroom while angel choirs sang in his pure mind, which was thinking solely of surrounding me with plushies when I could not run away.

He is not my type.

I say.

As though I have any experience with non-fictional guys…

Let’s calm down for a moment, think rationally.

If I do like Liam in a husband-wife way, why would I be against that?

He’s already expressed on multiple levels and in multiple ways that he cares about me. He’s offered to learn to love me if that’s what I want. He’s a billionaire. Financial security is always a perk. I’ve never exactly given much thought to the physical intimacy things, aside from yesterday, which I’m sure was a fluke, so it doesn’t matter that he has the libido of a sock.

I see very limited downsides.

For me.

As far as his downsides are concerned, he gets a volatile moocher.

Give it enough time, and he’ll be the one regretting his decisions and asking for a divorce.

“Tomorrow’s Saturday, isn’t it?” I ask.

“It does tend to come after Friday, yes.”

The weekend.

Two days. Just the two of us. Here. In this big house.

Since I started working for him and he started helping me establish a brand for my new author name, he’s not pressed spending time together . He’s let me work on the weekends, periodically interrupting me to mention how I should eat something or drink some unflavored water. Although, to be fair, he has also brought me coffee refills.

All in all, he’s been decent.

Weird, stubborn, and evil , but tolerable.

Oh, who am I kidding?

The man’s brought me coffee and not pestered me at all. He’s been… wonderful . And I’ve been guarded, selfish, and angry. Just waiting for the other shoe to drop. As though I’m still living with someone who has the emotional maturity of my parents.

“Do you want to do something?” I ask.

I blink.

I press my lips together.

I do not know where those words came from. Not even a little bit.

What?

Do something? Us? Surely I’m not the one asking for quality time. And especially not while we are currently partaking of quality time right at this exact moment.

My heart rate stumbles and panics, so I stammer into the building silence, “For research.”

“Research?” he asks. “What kind of research do you need to do? I can’t take you to an illegal fight club. I don’t know how to find one, and I don’t think I want to learn how to find one.”

A broken laugh spills out. “N-no. Not that kind of research.”

But, then, what kind of research?

I rack my brain for a way to save face.

Only insanity answers, but it is better than the quiet stretching between us, so I say, “I mean a research date. Where—” I swallow the heart thumping in my esophagus. “—you adopt the attitude of my male lead. I need some ideas on where to take the story next.”

What am I saying?

Hey, Liam. I know you’re playing with a tiny flocked bear , but mind pretending to be a giant, unbeatable crime lord? Thanks.

I have lost my mind.

At the very least, he’s got the giant part going for him when he’s standing next to someone of my particular stature?

No holds barred, he says, “I can do that. When would you like me to start?”

“Huh?”

“What time tomorrow would you like me to start? Your male lead would plan the date himself and not take no for an answer if your female lead didn’t agree with something in his plans. Would you like me to do that? Or is there a specific location you’d like to picture your male lead in the environment of?”

Those are very good questions.

Shame I thought none of this through.

“If you wouldn’t mind planning things entirely, I’d appreciate that.”

Liam glues a little cardboard house together and fixes it to the side of his shoe box before walking his little bears home. “What amount of physical intimacy are you looking for?”

Pardon? “What…do you mean?”

“Your male lead isn’t shy. Are you asking me to replicate his mannerisms to such an extent, even if that involves touching you?”

Hesitant, I turn my attention to his face. “What…are you comfortable with?”

Lifting, his stare penetrates, stoic, heated, eviscerating. Finally, he drops it. Takes his last bear home. Says: “Yes.”

“Y-yes?” I squeak.

He smiles, pleased when every little bear is snuggled up inside the cardboard house. “We’re married, Bambi. I’m very comfortable with everything.”

Oh.

Okay then.

That’s.

Interesting to note.

Am I certain he knows what he’s saying? He probably doesn’t. This is going to be very awkward, watching him pretend to be some big tough dude. I have set myself up for raging second-hand embarrassment.

I regret the consequences of my own actions already.

Rising, Liam sets his Valentine box on the coffee table, leans down, frames my face in his hands, and kisses my forehead. “Sounds fun. I can’t wait. I’ll go plan, so be ready for tomorrow. Goodnight, love.”

Unless I’m mistaken, my heart just ruptured.

Pity.

Were I not completely dead, I think I might have fooled myself into looking forward to tomorrow, second-hand embarrassment and all.