Chapter 16 #2
Jordan had been wrong about everything returning to normal. Dinner ended up being a split affair because the twins were still fighting. Lulie went with their parents in the dining room, while Zinnia and Jordan got custody of Wylie at the kitchen table.
He didn’t say a single word to either of them the entire time.
That night in the bungalow, Zinnia sat on Jordan’s bed while waiting for him to come out of his bathroom.
Their rooms were unsurprisingly identical in layout and furnishings. A queen-sized bed with a dark wood headboard, gray blankets and sheets, an abundance of pillows, a small armchair in the corner, a desk and chair near the window.
His room did have photos of his family on the walls, while hers didn’t. Vacations, school events, holidays—all from his childhood.
“Did you hang all these pictures up?” she called out.
“Some of them.” He appeared in the doorway.
Zinnia’s jaw dropped. She hadn’t really spent that much time thinking about his body, apart from the tattoo.
If she had, maybe she wouldn’t have been so gobsmacked to discover that her husband looked like a damn marble statue—perfection uncovered by talented hands.
Solid muscle reinforced by pliant curves.
A breathtaking balance of hard and soft lines.
Dark gray sweatpants riding low on his hips.
“No wonder you dress like a priest all the time.”
His skin still had a red tint from the shower, but she didn’t miss the flush overtaking his ears as he looked down at himself. “I usually sleep naked. I figured that wouldn’t be okay.”
She strangely felt a lot warmer than she did a few seconds ago. Must be the steam from the shower flowing into the bedroom. “Boxers are fine. You can do that.”
“Really?”
“It’s your room. You should be comfortable.
Completely changing what you normally do defeats the point of practicing.
” She fumbled with her hem before smoothly pulling her nightgown off.
Thank Jesus she had the foresight to put on a matching bralette set.
She lived a walk through the door and free the titties kind of life.
“See? No different than wearing a bathing suit.”
Zinnia knew what desire looked like well enough to draw it with her eyes closed. Her heart jerked violently thinking she’d caught that distinctly hungry look on Jordan’s face, but no. She must’ve imagined it.
“All right.” He took off his pants.
Her eyes widened. “Can I say something extremely inappropriate?”
“Sure,” he said, while folding his sweats.
“Your thighs were made for slutty summer shorts. We have to get you some. Ooh, and rompers.”
“I’ll wear them for you. I’m not going outside like that.”
“But I want all the other wives to be jealous of me,” she joked.
“Are you calling me a trophy husband?”
She gave him a cool look. “We both know exactly who the trophy is in this relationship.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Both of us?”
“You damn right. Look at me.” She cackled and twirled in a circle. “Look at us.”
He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “Can I say something extremely inappropriate?”
“No. Stop trying to steal my lines. Let me see your arm.” His tattoo covered his entire shoulder—a large starfish with rich blue waves spiraling behind it and flowing down his upper arm. “It’s so big.”
He snickered.
“Oh, you know what I meant. Cut that out.” She tapped his arm. “Did it hurt?
“A little bit, yeah. Do you have any?”
“Needles freak me out. I was born with all my artwork. See? I have eight of them.”
He reached out and stopped a few inches shy of touching the spotted cluster at the base of her sternum. “Uh, sorry. I’ve noticed the ones on your legs before.”
“Yeah,” she said absently, thinking about grabbing his wrist and placing his hand on her birthmark. Imagining how his calloused palm would feel on her skin…
He cleared his throat. “Zin?”
“Huh? Yes! Right. Birthmarks on my leg. Those are called Easter Egg and Swiss. I’m like a Rorschach test. Everyone sees something different, but I name them based on what I see.
” She pointed to her chest. “Speckled Ridge.” Lifted her right arm.
“The Whale.” She pointed behind her and laughed. “Cumulonimbus on my left ass cheek.”
“Can I see it?”
She palmed the starfish on his shoulder, riding the wave that went down his tricep with her fingertips. Touching is fine, she thought, trying to communicate with him telepathically. Reading each other’s faces wasn’t enough. She had big psychic dreams for their future.
“Maybe someday.” She let her hand fall to her side and climbed onto his bed. “Probably the same day you tell me what your tattoo means.”
He inhaled sharply, eyes on hers. “Deal.”
ZnO2 Group Chat
FIONA: Give me details! tell me everything!
ZINNIA: He snores
FIONA:…that’s it?
ZINNIA: Really loudly
FIONA: So nothing happened? you honestly just slept?
ZINNIA: He did tell me that he usually sleeps naked. I didn’t want him to change for me so I took my clothes off too
ZINNIA: Why are you calling me? I thought you were working
Jordan
He truly slept like the dead—on his back, barely moving, but he’d inexplicably blipped awake three times during the night.
During his first burst of consciousness, Zinnia was sprawled out like a starfish with one hand holding his wrist in a death grip.
When it happened again, she was sleeping completely face down and at a forty-five-degree angle, head near his shoulder with her feet dangling over the side of the bed.
The third burst felt infinitely longer—a dream so torturous it had to be real.
Zinnia had cuddled up against his chest with one leg flung across his hips. Wrestling through his sleep-addled haze, he managed to move his arm and lightly brush her cheek.
She’d thrown an arm across his shoulders in response, pulling herself up until her chest was flush with his, clinging to him like a body pillow. Nuzzling his neck. Happily mumbling his name.
She was gone now.
Sunlight poured into his room through the window. His skin already felt sticky from sweat and a heat-induced headache pulsed around his temples. Summers like this, when the previous day’s heat survived the night and created depressingly hot mornings, made him want to move to Antarctica.
Jordan rolled over with a groan, burying his face where Zinnia had been. Traces of her still lingered all over his bed. Her scented lotion. Dents in her pillow. Her silk hair bonnet?
He snorted with laughter, completely unsurprised. It must’ve fallen off during the night and she forgot to take it with her. He neatly folded and placed it on the bedside table, swapping it for his phone.
Waking up to a slew of notifications was still his normal. Except now there were some from Fiona—all Beta Carotene–related—and one from Zinnia.
She always woke up first. Her morning messages had begun as a brief Jordan. Good morning.
But had now escalated to:
ZINNIA: Remind me to tell you why I go skydiving every leap year on leap day.
You should come with me next time. Also, hi.
Did you sleep well because I CAN HEAR YOU SNORING and it sounds so peaceful so I’m guessing yes.
It’s like a chorus of angels with sacred kazoos in there.
Thank you for entertaining my little experiment last night.
We should do it again some time. I’m eating breakfast now.
Hurry up and wake up so we can have second breakfast:))))))
He loved his Zinnia Morning Ramble messages. He was obsessed with them to a concerning degree. They made him giddy—like he was fifteen again and getting high for the first time kind of giddy. This shit was borderline embarrassing. He was too old to feel like this and yet…
Mornings were hardest for him. In more ways than one.
I think we should sleep together.
Zinnia routinely said things that fried every nerve and brain cell he had to a filthy crisp.
She was inexperienced, sure, but not oblivious.
His first thought was that she was testing him, seeing how far she could push before he pushed back.
Common sense kicked in a second later. When had she ever done that inside their bungalow?
She’d genuinely meant sleeping in the same bed. Nothing more, nothing less.
And then she took off her nightgown—torment and trust and less than a handful of fabric between them.
He’d tried to take in all of her as quickly as he could.
Frantically trying to memorize every curve and slope and birthmark from clavicle to breasts to waist to belly button to hips, legs, and feet.
Fighting against vivid flashes of where he wanted to put his mouth first. He’d been dizzy with greed, body hot and muscles excruciatingly tight.
He’d forced himself to stop.
The cameras gave him purpose. A driving motivation keeping him detached while going through the Newlywed motions of loving her out loud. Without them…
She’d see it wasn’t an act at all.
He wished he could allow himself fifteen minutes—just fifteen fucking minutes to open his vault and let everything he felt for his wife breathe and run as wild as she slept.
But on their introductory call, she’d told him that she wasn’t interested in falling in love with anyone. And during their engagement dinner when she’d said it again, he’d promised her that he understood.
At the time, he’d sincerely believed that he wouldn’t fall in love with his wife.
Jordan had no choice but to keep pushing his feelings down and hide everything inside of his vault. He turned the key, spun the dial, and wrapped it in chains. Laid imaginary hands on it, whispering and begging for it to hold.
Because it was swelling now, nearly bursting at the welded seams. Every day there was more to lock away. Every day she’d done something worth remembering. Every day she made him feel like a besotted sea captain, honored to go down with his doomed ship.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. He’d ask how but he already knew the answer.