Chapter 24
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
WILLA
The morning blurred together with barely a breath between customers. Every time I looked up, the line had doubled. Through it all, my husband was selling the shit out of everything we had while I tried very hard not to stare at his ass.
Everything was going great…except for the fact that he’d been right. We were sold out of jam before noon.
“Well, well, well,” he said, smugness oozing from his tone as he handed a bag to a customer. “I do believe that was our last jar of jam, hellcat. You know, the jam without any edible gold that you didn’t think would sell.”
I rolled my eyes as I exchanged cash for a pint of strawberries. “Probably had something to do with the novelty of a hot guy in an apron saying how delicious everything tastes.”
A slow grin spread across his mouth. “You think I’m hot?”
“I think all this heat is getting to you.”
“Whatever you say, wife.”
The crowd never waned as the sun climbed higher, and Lincoln somehow got smugger with every sale, though I had no idea that was possible.
Not only had we sold out of jam, but three-quarters of our strawberries were gone, we were down to less than half a dozen jars of honey, and even the cheeky mini honey sticks were running dangerously low.
One thing was clear—Lincoln was having the time of his life.
He was in his element and loving every minute of it. Flashing his dimples, charming anyone who walked by, and flexing those obnoxious biceps just enough to make the older ladies fan themselves and the younger ones linger a bit too long.
And then there was the one who just wouldn’t go away.
Blond and sun-kissed and wearing a dress so thin I could make out her lacy bra beneath it, she held a to-go cup of strawberry sangria in one hand and touched my husband with the other. Just a light stroke against his wrist as she leaned in, laughing like the two of them were sharing an inside joke.
I hated it.
Which was ridiculous. First of all, it was her fingertips she was brushing all over him, not her tits. And second of all, what Lincoln and I had was fake.
So why the hell did this unwanted sensation crackling in my chest feel incredibly real?
The line was stacking up as Sangria Barbie asked about everything we had available, wanting to sample each and every good.
My husband included.
But what surprised the hell out of me was the way Lincoln didn’t lean into flirting back. Didn’t give her even half the wattage of the smiles he’d handed out to the rest of the crowd. Wasn’t even a flicker of light compared to the ones he sent me.
But he didn’t shut her down either.
He stepped back every time she leaned in closer, his expression polite but bland as he pointed to each item she asked about with his left hand. As if purposely flashing his wedding ring.
Still, the woman didn’t get the hint.
If anything, Lincoln’s disinterest only made her bolder.
More determined. She dragged her cup, slick with condensation, across her collarbone like she was oh-so very hot.
Then she placed one hand on the table and leaned over to give him a not-so-subtle view straight down her dress like she was starring in a porno no one else knew was being produced.
His placid smile stayed in place, but I also clocked the way his mouth tightened just a bit and a tiny tic of irritation in his jaw. His response should’ve soothed this wild, unwanted thrum beneath my skin.
Instead, that weird twist in my gut only pulled tighter.
It wasn’t jealousy. Obviously.
It was just irritation.
This woman was holding up the line. Interfering with our sales. Wasting Lincoln’s and my and everyone else’s time.
Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore.
“Give me just one second,” I said to the older man who was next in line before stomping over to Chatty Cathy and my husband who was too nice to tell her to fuck off.
“Do you need help with something?” I asked, voice sharp, eyes sharper.
She startled, a bit of her sangria sloshing over the side of her porn glass. “Oh! Um, no. Thank you.”
“Really? Seems like maybe you do. You’ve been standing here longer than it takes our chickens to lay eggs.”
She breathed out a nervous laugh, her eyes darting between me and Lincoln, who’d stepped in close behind me—close enough his heat seeped into my spine. “I’m just having a little trouble deciding what to get. I was wondering if I could sample the honey.”
“We don’t serve samples of honey.” I flashed her my teeth, my smile more I will cut you than let’s be besties. “Or husbands.”
Lincoln’s feet bracketed mine as he slid his left arm around my waist, palm splayed across my stomach, his chin resting on top of my head. Solid. Steady. Possessive as hell. I didn’t even have to look to know he was grinning like the smug jackass he was.
Sangria Barbie breathed out what barely passed for a laugh, made an excuse about meeting a friend, and scampered off. Probably to flirt with someone else’s fake husband.
I blew out a heavy breath and turned to face Lincoln, ready to tell him to get back to work, but the look on his face stopped me cold.
His cheeks were flushed, his eyes dark and hooded.
And now that my rage fog had receded a bit, I realized I’d felt the solid weight of him against my back while he’d been standing behind me.
One flick of my gaze down to the front of his jeans confirmed as much.
My brows flew up as I met his eyes, then dropped my voice to hiss, “Are you seriously turned on right now?”
His grin spread slow and easy, just like the honey he was selling so well. “You low-key telling another woman to fuck off while standing in front of me like I’m already yours? Yeah, wife. That kinda did it for me.”
Before I could respond to him, he dropped a kiss on my lips. Then he stepped around me and greeted the people waiting in line—now a dozen deep.
That was how the rest of the day went, minus any more Sangria Barbies. And Lincoln was enjoying every second.
He was effortlessly smooth, smiling like the damn sun was shining out of his dimples and somehow flirting with every single person in line without actually flirting. That might’ve had something to do with the fact that every word, every wink, every compliment somehow circled back to me.
I’d never heard someone say the word wife so many times in one afternoon, but he managed to fit it into every single conversation like he was competing for the world record.
His wife’s strawberries were delicious.
The honey his wife harvested was the best in New England.
The jam his wife made was already sold out, and he’d been lucky enough to taste-test every batch of his wife’s recipes.
And forget about the number of times he’d touched me.
He kept brushing against me when he handed off bags.
His fingers lingered on the small of my back when he was close.
And every chance he got, he looped an arm around my waist to tug me into his side like that was exactly where I belonged.
Pressed kisses against my temple. Told me how great I was doing and how much I was killing it.
The real problem wasn’t that he was doing any of those things. It was that I was letting him.
I didn’t step out of his grasp, didn’t move out of his reach. Found I couldn’t.
Because every time he touched me like I belonged to him and every time he looked at me like he couldn’t wait to get me home, I forgot to breathe.
And when he said wife with such possession and pride, the grumpy cat inside me that usually lashed out with hisses and sharp claws just curled up in my chest and purred.
Through it all, I tried to keep my face neutral. Focused on what needed to be done. Tried to pretend this was perfectly normal and none of it was getting to me. Not even a little.
But my cheeks were flushed and my panties were wet and my nipples were hard enough to cut glass. And, by the knowing glances Lincoln kept sending my way, that smug bastard knew it.