Chapter Forty-Three
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Georgia/ Three Years Ago
T he sound of something sizzling perks my ears up as I walk toward the welcoming smell coming from the kitchen. Rubbing my eyes, I poke my head around the corner into the open pocket door to see Lincoln in front of the stove, flipping eggs in a pan.
When he sees me, his eyes rake down the borrowed shirt I fell asleep in. He doesn’t compliment me like he usually does, but his eyes glimmer with unspoken appreciation when they land on my bare legs.
“Did you come to bed last night?” I ask, leaning my shoulder against the doorjamb and letting the shirt ride up my thighs.
He begins plating the food onto two plates, not paying any attention. “I couldn’t sleep, so I went to the gym and did a little overtime at the station.”
I frown. “All night?”
“I’ve got court coming up,” is all he says.
Heaviness settles onto my lips, pulling them down further. When he turns to me, holding a plate of eggs, bacon, and sausage, I see the bags hugging the underside of his glassy eyes and realize he hasn’t slept at all since yesterday morning when he left.
“Lincoln,” I say, taking the plates and setting them on the counter. “You need to get some sleep. The last time you stayed up past twenty-four hours, you nearly crashed the truck when you were driving home.”
“I want to have breakfast with my wife,” he says. “Is that too much to ask?”
Biting on the inside of my cheek, I relent. “It smells delicious.”
We sit at the cherry table he found online for six hundred dollars. His father helped him go to Long Island to pick it up. I’d offered to come. He said he and his father could handle it.
So, I stayed home.
It’s five minutes of silverware scraping ceramic when he breaks the silence. “Can I ask you something?”
I look up at him. “Of course you can.”
“Do you consider us friends?”
The question pinches my brows. “Friends?”
His chin dips.
It’s an odd question. “You’re my husband.”
Jaw grinding, he sets his fork down on his plate and takes a deep breath. “That isn’t what I asked, Georgia.”
His tone throws me off. “Are you upset right now?”
“I—” He cuts himself off, closing his eyes and rubbing them with the pads of his fingers as he blows out a breath. “If friendship is what you need, then I can be that for you.”
There’s a twinge of pain lingering in his tone that makes my appetite waver. “Where is this coming from, Lincoln?”
He pushes his plate away, as done with the short-lived meal as I am. “I want to be the person you go to when you need somebody. Not your father. Not Leani. Not Luca.”
Lips parting, I inhale a quiet breath.
“I know you talk to them,” he says, leaning back and meeting my eyes. “I know you go see them when I’m at work.”
I don’t say anything.
His head tilts. “We used to be in this together.”
“We still are.”
“Are we?” he questions. “Because it seems to me like you regret the choice you made by marrying me.”
Is that what he thinks? “That’s not true.”
“Then tell me why you’re going behind my back to see the very people you ran away from.”
Shoulders stiffening, I try not to let the accusatory words sink in too deep. After all, I’m not the only one who’s going behind people’s backs and lying about it. “I think you’re forgetting something important, Lincoln.”
His eyebrows go up.
“At the end of the day, it’s your bed I fall asleep in,” I point out, standing and pushing the chair back. Flashing him my hand, I add, “It’s your ring I’m wearing. Not Luca’s. It’s you I said ‘I do’ to, not him. It’s you that I went home with when I was engaged. It’s you that I trusted enough to give me a life I wouldn’t have gotten if my father got his way.”
He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing as his eyes briefly scan my ring before looking away.
If that’s not enough for him, I don’t know what will be. “Do you trust me at all?” I ask him.
My heart squeezes as his silence stretches.
I walk over to him, sit on his lap, and cup his face, forcing him to look me in the eye. “Do. You. Trust. Me?” I ask slower, feeling my hands shake with the anticipation of his answer.
But his remaining silence screams the truth.
The burn of tears prickles the backs of my eyes when he chooses not to say a word. “Then what more needs to be said?” I whisper defeatedly, starting to move off his lap.
He stops me.
His arm hooks around my waist and lifts me up and onto the edge of the table, then positions my legs so they’re parted in front of him.
Slowly, his hands trail up my bare legs, lifting my shirt as he goes until I’m bare to him. His eyes flicker upward. “No panties this whole time?”
“You never came to bed last night.”
A noise rises from his throat as he drags me to the very edge of the table and presses his mouth against the inside of my knee. “A missed opportunity,” he murmurs against my skin, trailing his mouth north.
The tension coiling in my chest lowers to my stomach as he continues his path of kisses up my thigh, his broad shoulders keeping my thighs open to him.
I should stop him.
Make him talk to me.
Ask him what he needs to make this better.
But I don’t.
My hands go to his hair, combing through the short strands as he moves my calves over each of his shoulders. “Please don’t stop,” I beg when his mouth stops short of where I want him.
I can feel him smile against me, his teeth biting down on the soft flesh at the apex of my thigh and earning him a sharp breath. He lifts his head to look at me through his lashes, his eyes darkened by lust.
“Your pussy is mine,” he states.
Shakily, I nod. “Yours.”
He grabs my hand and drags his finger along the rings resting there before dipping his head between my legs and showing me exactly how “his” I am.
Back arching, I moan out his name as his tongue swipes over the nerves that send shockwaves down my legs.
My free hand goes back to his head, gripping his hair as he works me skillfully to the brink. I lie back and submit myself to the feeling he creates with his lips and tongue, gasping when a finger joins in. Then two.
“Lincoln,” I rasp when a third enters me.
“You’re mine, Georgia. Say it.”
“I’m—” I suck in a breath when he hits my G-spot, and black dots cloud my vision.
He does it again.
And again.
And again.
“Say it,” he commands. “Tell me you’re mine.”
My stomach tightens, and a spark of warmth travels down my spine as I start to break.
“I’m yours,” I cry out, feeling the orgasm take over my body when his lips suck my clit into his mouth as he slams three fingers inside of me like I’d wanted his cock to last night.
The overwhelming feeling blinds me as I struggle for air, my body coming off the table as he rides out the wave of pleasure coursing through me.
When he lifts his head, I see myself glistening on his lips. “You better remind Luca Carbone of that the next time you see him. I’m sure it won’t be long.”
I gape as he stands and adjusts himself. He starts walking down the hall, leaving me spread and sated on the table. “I’m going to bed.”
*
A plate of cookies gets shoved in front of my face, making me jerk back from the catalog I was searching. “Hannah?”
Lincoln’s little sister sets the plate full of chocolate chip cookies in front of me. “They have extra chocolate in the middle,” she says, sliding the plastic-wrapped platter closer to me. “I heard you have a sweet tooth like me.”
The teenager leans against the counter with one expectant eyebrow popped up. Does she want me to eat one right now? “How did you get here?” I ask, peeling open the wrap and taking one of the cookies out. She’s eyeing them, so I grab another one and pass it to her with a knowing smile. “A cookie tax.”
Hannah grins, biting into the treat. “Mom had to go to one of the stores down the street, so I told her I’d drop off the cookies. Last time we went out, she wouldn’t stop talking to some old woman she ran into. I was bored out of my mind.”
“So you decided to make a cookie delivery?”
“It’s your birthday tomorrow,” is all she says.
My lips twitch. “It is,” I murmur.
It’s basically the anniversary of the night Lincoln and I met. He hasn’t said anything about it, so I haven’t either. Leani already tried making plans to host a party at their house, but I turned it down, knowing it would be another fight in the making with the man I married. With good reason, I guess. There’s no doubt in my mind that the people on the guest list would cause nothing but trouble.
Trying not to think about Lincoln’s parting words after he opened my legs on the breakfast table, I clear my throat. “Thank you, Hannah. This is very thoughtful.”
She finishes her cookie and brushes her hands off. “Are you and my brother going to get divorced?”
My eyes widen at the question. “What?”
“I heard my mom and dad talking about it. They said Lincoln spends a lot of time there now because something is wrong at home. He’s been coming over to fix random things at the house that aren’t even broken. He even offered to help me paint my room.”
I frown, and simultaneously, Hannah and I say, “He hates painting.”
She nods. “Exactly. So, are you breaking up or something?”
“Hannah…” What am I supposed to tell her? “No, we’re not breaking up. Things have been a little tough lately, that’s all.”
“So fix whatever the problem is.”
I force a smile. “I wish it were that easy.”
“What’s so hard about it?”
I’m not even going to try to explain the dynamic I have with my family. “It’s complicated. But everything will be okay.”
My wavering smile doesn’t seem to appease the teenager. “My parents like you. And they don’t like seeing either of you sad. Especially Lincoln. I’m sure your parents wouldn’t want to see you that way either.”
Something tugs on my heart. I’m fairly certain my father would be happy to see that. Then he’d be proven right about the life I’ve chosen for myself.
But I don’t tell Hannah that.
I swallow the truth.
Like always.
“For the record,” I tell her, “I don’t want Lincoln to be sad either.”
“Good.” She nods approval. “Me neither.”
I gesture toward the cookies. “Thank you for these. Tell your mother I appreciate them.”
She stuffs her hands in her pockets and glances at the door for a minute before looking back at me. “If it makes you feel better, I told Lincoln to pull his head out of his butt and make things better. And our parents said that if he loves you, he should try to fix things before they’re actually broken.”
All I do is stare at her.
Hannah shrugs. “Hopefully, he listens.”
Absentmindedly, I slowly move my head up and down. “Yeah,” I murmur. “Hopefully.”
After she leaves, I pull out my phone to call him, but I’m distracted by the voicemail left from the number I was told not to save.
When I click on the message, I hold it to my ear and feel the subtle rise in my heartbeat. “This is Jack Powell returning your call. I spoke to Shawn Hart, and I think I know how we can help you. But we’ll need more recordings. Give me a call back when you can.”
I delete the message and rub my clammy palms along my leggings. The feeling of betrayal weighs heavily on my shoulders, but I try brushing it off as I dial the number and listen to it ring.
That night when I get home from work, I’m surprised when I see Lincoln’s truck parked in the driveway. It’s enough to help me forget about the conversation that’s clung to my conscience all day.
When I walk upstairs and turn into the open dining room, I see Lincoln sitting on the floor with white pieces of wood scattered in piles around him and a screwdriver in his hand.
“I thought you took that overtime shift,” is how I greet him.
He looks up from the instructions on the floor. “I told them I couldn’t make it.” Setting the tool down, he pats the spot beside him. “Come here.”
Hesitantly, I set my things down on the counter and take the seat beside him on the carpet. That’s when I realize what he’s building.
“Bookshelves,” I whisper, touching the wood.
“For your birthday.”
My eyes dart to his.
“I didn’t forget.”
Guilt creeps up my chest.
He doesn’t let me talk. “We met four years ago today,” he notes, brushing a dark piece of hair behind my ear. “I know I’m a lot, but it’s because I want to give you a life you’re happy with. I may not be able to give you a bookstore, but I can build a few shelves.”
I smile. “I don’t want a bookstore, Lincoln.”
He meets my eyes.
“I just want my husband.”
His hand cups my cheek. “You have me, Peaches. Even on the days you might not think it.”
Yours, I told him only days ago.
“The same applies to you, you know.” I slide onto his lap and wrap my arms around his neck. “I don’t want to fight. I don’t want you to be mad.”
He presses his lips against mine. “Tell me what you want,” he says, his mouth brushing mine with each syllable.
All I say is, “For you to trust me.”
For a moment, his eyebrows pinch.
My whispered, “Please,” has his throat bobbing.
But eventually, he says, “Okay.”
I don’t know if he means it though.
Hours later, when he’s naked and asleep in bed, I crawl out of it and check my phone.
Unknown: Meet me tomorrow at 12
Unknown: You know where
I look back at my sleeping husband.
And then I delete the texts.