Chapter Fourteen #2
Cool stone floors. A wide staircase curving upward. French doors thrown open to the terrace. Linen sofas. A kitchen bigger than my first apartment. Fresh flowers on every surface. A bowl of lemons the size of my fist. Somewhere in the back, I can hear water—maybe a fountain, maybe a pool.
The house manager appears almost instantly, greeting Everett by name and handing over a folder with keys, reservations, and what sounds like an offensively romantic itinerary planned by Everly's team.
Of course she planned an itinerary.
Of course she did.
Everett takes the folder, skims the top page, and mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like a threat.
I glance over his arm.
Private vineyard tasting. Couples massage. Sunset yacht charter.
I choke on nothing.
He closes the folder immediately.
"Don't," he says without looking at me.
"I didn't say anything."
"You were about to."
"Yes," I admit. "I was."
His eyes close for half a second like he's preparing for battle.
The manager smiles brightly. "And of course, the honeymoon suite has already been prepared."
The air leaves my lungs in one violent, silent rush.
Everett goes still beside me.
The manager, blissfully unaware that he just dropped a grenade in the middle of the foyer, keeps smiling.
"If you need anything at all, monsieur, madame, simply call."
Then he disappears.
Leaving me alone.
With my husband.
In the foyer.
Of a honeymoon villa.
With one suite apparently prepared for us.
I clear my throat.
Everett loosens his cuffs slowly, not looking at me. "I'm going to guess this was my sister."
"Your sister is a menace."
"Yes."
We stand there a second longer than necessary.
Then I say, because apparently my self-preservation left somewhere over the Atlantic, "Maybe there's more than one bedroom."
Everett's gaze slides to mine.
Slowly.
"This is a villa," he says. "There are definitely more bedrooms."
"Right. Of course. Obviously."
A beat passes.
Then another.
Neither of us moves.
The foyer goes very still.
His eyes drift to my mouth.
Then lower.
Then back up again, and there is nothing polite left in his expression now. Nothing distant. Nothing brotherly or contractual or safe.
Just hunger.
Sharp and controlled and devastating in how carefully he's trying to leash it.
"We should look around," I say too quickly.
"Yes," he says, voice low. "We should."
Neither of us moves.
Then finally he takes my carry-on from beside the door and heads for the stairs.
I follow.
The bedroom at the top of the stairs is a disaster waiting to happen.
There is one bed.
Massive. White linen. Carved headboard. French doors opening to a private terrace that overlooks the sea.
I stop in the doorway.
Everett stops too.
"Well," I say faintly.
He sets the luggage down with too much control. "I can take another room."
Something inside me twists at how fast he offers.
At how natural it is now. Him putting distance between us. Him volunteering absence like it's the most thoughtful thing he has.
I should let him.
That would be easier.
Smarter.
Safer.
Instead I hear myself say, "We're supposed to be on our honeymoon."
He turns back toward me.
His expression gives away nothing.
His eyes give away everything.
"You're right."
It's just those two words.
Just that.
And still my pulse jumps so hard it makes me lightheaded.
He straightens slowly. "Then we share the room."
There is no arrogance in it. No smugness. No assumption.
Just that same quiet, brutal control he brings to everything.
I nod.
"Okay."
The word comes out smaller than I intended.
Everett's gaze drops to my mouth again. "Okay."
The silence that follows is not survivable.
I turn away first and move toward the suitcase because if I stay where I am, I'm going to do something reckless, like ask my husband if he's still planning to sleep on a couch somewhere in France too.
I unzip the bigger suitcase and stare down into it.
Then blink.
Then blink again.
Lace.
Black lace. White lace. Pale blue silk. Something strappy and scandalous in blush that looks less like underwear and more like a threat to my blood pressure.
I rummage deeper.
Another set. Another lace thing. Another tiny scrap of what I think is technically clothing but could also be dental floss if viewed from the wrong angle.
Behind me, the room goes very still.
I pull out a navy satin slip with matching underwear and hold it up like evidence in a murder trial.
"Oh my God."
Everett clears his throat.
I do not turn around.
I keep digging like maybe if I go low enough in the suitcase I'll find a pair of cotton pajamas and my dignity.
No luck.
A red lace bra appears.
Then a white one with sheer cups.
Then a bikini so small I'm fairly certain it was designed by a man with a vendetta.
I can feel Everett behind me now without even looking. The heat of him. The silence of him. The very obvious effort not to say a word while I expose the contents of my honeymoon luggage across the bedspread like a very erotic yard sale.
I finally whip around, one hand full of lace and my face on fire.
"I told you Everly threatened to do this."
His jaw is tight enough to crack teeth. His eyes drag once over the bed, then up to my face, then away again like the act physically costs him.
"Yes," he says, voice rougher than it was downstairs. "You did."
"There have to be actual clothes in here somewhere."
I turn back and continue digging, muttering under my breath as more lingerie emerges.
"This is absurd. No one needs this much lace. Is this even structurally sound? There's no way this top qualifies as a garment in multiple countries."
A low sound comes from behind me.
I freeze and glance over my shoulder.
Everett has one hand braced against the bedpost, head tipped down, eyes closed for a brief, dangerous second like he's actively trying not to come undone in the middle of the room.
Then he opens them and walks to the dresser.
No hurry. No wasted movement. Just control strapped over the top of something that looks one bad second from breaking loose.
He opens a drawer, reaches in, and pulls out a plain white T-shirt.
When he turns back, he holds it out to me.
"Here."
I stare at it.
Then at him.
Then back at the T-shirt.
"What's this?"
"What you're sleeping in," he says.
I take it automatically. The cotton is soft and cool from the drawer.
"And if I wanted to sleep in one of these?" I ask before my brain catches up to my mouth.
His eyes drop once to the black lace draped over my wrist.
When they come back to mine, they are dark enough to make my pulse jump.
"Then I'd advise you not to do it in front of me."
My breath stalls.
The room suddenly feels ten degrees warmer.
I set the lace down carefully, because my hands have stopped being especially reliable, and clutch the shirt instead.
Everett drags a hand over his jaw.
"I'm going to shower," he says.
Like that explains the tension.
Like that explains anything.
He gets halfway to the bathroom, then stops, not looking back.
"And Aria?"
"Yes?"
His shoulders tighten under the white shirt.
"If you keep pulling things like that out of the bag while I'm standing here, I'm going to stop being polite."
Then he keeps walking, disappears into the bathroom, and shuts the door behind him.
I stand there in the middle of the honeymoon suite, surrounded by lace, holding my husband's T-shirt like it might save me from myself.
The shower turns on a second later.
I look down at the shirt.
Then at the lingerie strewn across the bed.
Then toward the closed bathroom door.
My face burns all over again.
This trip is either going to heal something in me or ruin me permanently.
Possibly both.