Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
TRIGGER
The door to our hotel suite clicks shut behind us, and I watch her take in the space.
It's luxury, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city of Granada, marble floors, expensive art on the walls, but none of that matters because her eyes are only focused on one thing: the single bedroom visible through the open doorway.
I can see the moment she registers it. Her shoulders tense, and her fingers flex. Here we go.
"There's only one room," she says, her voice carefully neutral.
She doesn't look at me, just wheels her bag forward with deliberate casualness.
"I guess you'll be sleeping on the couch," she says, like it's already decided.
Like I'm just going to nod and accept my place on the couch while she takes the bed. Not a chance.
"No," I say simply, setting my own bag down by the door.
She turns, eyebrows raised. "Excuse me?"
"I said no." I shrug off my jacket and drape it over the back of a chair. "I'm not sleeping on the couch."
"Our agreement—" she starts.
"Was separate sleeping quarters when possible," I finish for her. "Unfortunately, this was the only suite available on short notice. So, we'll have to make do."
Her eyes narrow. "Make do?"
"The bed's big enough for two adults to share." I meet her gaze. "We can put pillows between us if it makes you feel better. We both know you like walls. Build one."
"You're joking."
"Do I look like I'm joking?"
She stares at me for a long moment, and I can see the war happening behind her eyes.
"Fine." She turns on her heel, wheels her bag away from the bedroom entirely, and parks it next to the couch. "You take the bed. I'll sleep out here."
"Don't be ridiculous. You're not sleeping on the couch."
"Why not?" She's already unzipping her bag, pulling out what looks like sleep clothes. "Problem solved. You get the bed, and I get my separate quarters. Everyone's happy."
"You're my wife. You're not sleeping on a couch."
"Contract wife," she corrects, not looking at me. "And it's a very nice couch. I'll be fine."
I can feel my jaw tightening. This is exactly the kind of stubborn, infuriating thing she would do.
"This is childish."
Now she does look at me, and her eyes are blazing. "Childish? You want to talk about what's childish? You're the one who apparently booked a single room for a marriage that was explicitly supposed to have boundaries."
"I told you, this was the only suite."
"Sure it was." She crosses her arms. "How convenient."
She thinks I planned this. The thought sends a flash of something hot through my chest. She thinks I'm already playing games, already breaking the rules.
She's not entirely wrong to be suspicious.
I have no intention of honoring that divorce clause, but I genuinely didn't orchestrate this.
The hotel situation is just...lucky timing.
"Believe what you want," I say, forcing my voice to stay level. "But you're not sleeping on the couch. It's uncomfortable. You'll wake up with a stiff neck, and we have meetings tomorrow."
"I'll be fine."
"Take the bed."
"No."
Stubborn woman. We're at an impasse, and I can see from the set of her shoulders that she's not going to budge. Fine. Let her sleep on the couch tonight. Let her wake up sore and uncomfortable. Maybe it'll teach her that being contrary for the sake of being contrary has consequences.
"Fine," I say, picking up my bag. "Suit yourself."
I close the bedroom door, but not all the way, and start unpacking a few things.
Through the gap in the door, I can see her moving around the living area, and I take my bag of toiletries to the ensuite.
I'm an unpacker. I don't like living out of a suitcase when I travel, and setting my things on the counter, giving them a space, will help unclutter my mind.
I've only taken my toothbrush and cologne out when movement out of the corner of my eye catches my attention. Asha is in my room.
"Change your mind already, sweetheart?" I say, emptying a few more items onto the counter.
"In your dreams. I'm here for your credit card."
I blink. "What?" I face her, only to find her sitting on the edge of my bed, her bare legs crossed, looking like all my dreams come true.
"I'm going shopping," she sing-songs. "You promised I could buy clothes if I didn't pack the right attire." She's completely serious, sitting there checking her manicure like some kind of spoiled schoolgirl. "We're in Spain. I'll look like an American."
"You are an American," I snap back.
"You know what I mean. I need appropriate clothes. You said—"
"It's late." I walk into the room, move my suitcase to the floor, and begin unbuttoning my shirt. "This is a new city. I don't want you going out alone."
"Too bad." Her voice is firm, unyielding. "I need to be alone with my thoughts after everything. Hand over the card."
I look at her—really look at her. There's something in her eyes, not just stubbornness, but genuine need.
She needs space. Time to process whatever the hell the last twenty-four hours have been for her.
For both of us. I'm too tired to argue. Too tired to fight this battle when there are so many more important ones ahead.
However, I also can't just let her wander around Granada alone at night.
I abandon my buttons and grab my phone off the bed.
"What are you doing?" she asks, immediately suspicious.
I don't answer, just pull up the hotel contact and hit the concierge services button. It rings once. "Yes, Mr. Hale."
"I need the butler assigned to our suite," I say, keeping my eyes on her. "My wife needs an escort for some late-night shopping."
"What?" She's off the bed. "No. Absolutely not. I don't need a babysitter."
"We can arrange that immediately, sir," the voice on the phone says. "Manuel will be at your suite in five minutes. Will you be accompanying Mrs. Hale?"
"Stop," she hisses, and suddenly she's right there, leaning over the bed, reaching for the phone in my hand. "Hang up the phone. Right now."
I pull it back, just out of her reach, which only makes her lean in farther. She braces one hand on the mattress, the other stretching toward me, and suddenly she's close enough that I can smell whatever soap she used on the plane. Something clean and citrusy that makes my head swim.
"Give me the phone," she demands, her voice low and dangerous.
Our faces are inches apart now. I can see the tiny sparks of gold in her eyes even in the dim light, can feel the heat radiating off her skin. My hand comes up automatically and lands on her wrist. For one loaded, dangerous second, neither of us moves.
This is what I've been waiting for. The electric moment of raw connection, a split second where the hatred between us dissolves.
Her gaze meets mine with a vulnerability that cuts through our usual rivalry, and I see a glimpse of something deeper brewing beneath the surface, but then she pulls away.
"No, just my wife." I keep talking over her hissing protests. "Make sure he takes her anywhere she wants to go and stays with her the entire time."
"Of course, sir. And shall we—"
"Hang up the phone," she tries again, crossing her arms with a glare in her eye that threatens to murder me in my sleep if I don't obey.
I cover the phone with my hand, meeting her glare steadily. "You want to go shopping with my card in a new city without me? This is me meeting you halfway. Take it or leave it."
Her eyes flash with fury. "I said I need to be alone—"
"And I said I'm not letting you wander around Spain alone at night." My voice is firm, final. "Manuel will keep his distance. He'll carry your bags, make sure you get back safely. He’ll stay out of your way, but he's going. It’s non-negotiable."
"This is ridiculous."
"Take it or leave it," I repeat, removing my hand from the phone. "Are you still there?"
"Yes, Mr. Hale."
"Perfect. Have Manuel meet my wife in the lobby."
"Excellent. Will there be anything else?"
"No. Thank you." I end the call and look back at her. "You have five minutes to get ready if you're going."
She's seething. I can practically see the steam coming out of her ears.
"I don't need a babysitter," she says through gritted teeth.
"Then don't go." I pull my wallet from the nightstand, extract my card, and hold it out to her. "But if you do, Manuel goes with you. Those are the terms."
She stares at the card, then at me, then back at the card. I can see the war happening in her head. The need to defy me versus the need to get out of this room. Finally, she snatches the card from my hand.
"Fine," she bites out. "But if he hovers, I'm sending him back."
"He won't hover. He's a professional."
She takes the card from my fingers. "Don't wait up."
"Wasn't planning on it," I say, sliding off my boots. "Try not to bankrupt me."
"Don't tempt me." She brushes past me to the door.
Stubborn, infuriating woman.
She can buy all the clothes she wants and have all the alone time she needs to process, because at the end of the day, she's still my wife.
Still wearing my ring. Still bound to me for the next three hundred and sixty-four days, and by the end of those days, she won't want to leave.
I hear the suite door open and close. She's gone.
Go ahead and run, sweetheart. Shop until dawn if you need to. You'll still come back to me.