Chapter 17
ROXY
The transition back to the States hit us with a cold dose of reality as we navigated an awkward conversation about our living arrangements.
We stood in the airport terminal in Nashville, after we cleared customs, staring at our luggage while the domestic traffic swarmed around our heels.
‘We’re moving into my place,’ Angel stated, his tone leaving zero room for debate as he loaded the bags onto a steel cart.
I chewed the inside of my cheek, a knot of hesitation tightening in my gut.
Moving into his place, into his sanctuary now, with how twisted things were between us, felt terrifying.
After making love to him and confessing my heart to him, it was going to be even harder to keep the extent of my feelings from him.
‘I don’t know, Angel,’ I murmured. ‘Should we?’
‘We discussed this, Roxy,’ he reminded me, his gaze locking onto mine with steady intensity. ‘Remember Reese’s requirements? We have to maintain the appearance of a unified front, and separate houses will tank the whole strategy.’
He had a point, and I conceded with reluctance.
‘I’ll organize a team of local movers the following morning to box up your apartment your shit to my place.’
‘I’ll supervise because no one touches my canvasses but me.’
We drove in silence to his home in Bellmont-Hillsboro.
After parking in his garage, he led me into his house, striding upstairs and down the hallway.
‘This is your space,’ Angel said, gesturing to a massive guest suite. ‘I have late nights in the studio and don’t want to wake you by moving in and out of the primary.’
It was crystal clear right then.
I was still an outsider, a temporary occupant. Not. His. Wife.
Despite the wild passion we shared in Capri, we were back to being polite, distant, friendly, yet detached.
So had I just been a holiday fling for him?
Was he still in love with Evangeline?
If she came crawling to him again, would he dump me to take her back?
All these agonizing questions plagued my mind as I dragged my suitcase into the guest suite.
The bedroom featured beautiful rose-gold drapes and a geometric grey-and-rose carpet, the expansive window offering a view of a manicured side lawn, the pool, and a tall cedar fence.
The attached bathroom was pure luxury, lined with heated marble tiles and a deep soaking tub.
‘Nari delivers our shopping and meals weekly from a catering company we use,’ Angel added, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed. ‘A team of house cleaners does most of the tidying up on Thursdays.’
These were all the luxuries I left behind when I moved out of the Rosedale manor years ago.
I’d gotten used to being my own woman, grinding for my own success, and I swore I’d never let anyone else touch my laundry.
‘I’m washing my own clothes, Angel,’ I told him, setting my jaw. ‘I also like to cook my own food.’
He shrugged, his expression unreadable.
‘Do you, Roxy. Mi casa, su casa.’
My heart dropped a little at his use of my name.
We locked eyes for a beat, then he raised his chin and strolled off.
What happened to beautiful and babe?
What about the panty-melting kisses and the gentle strokes and touches?
I swallowed the lump in my throat, focusing on settling into my new room.
Tamping down my need and craving for him.
Later that evening at dinner, Angel moved around the kitchen with quiet efficiency, searing garlic-butter lamb chops in a cast-iron skillet; the savory aroma of his spice rub filled the air.
He also prepared Yukon Gold potatoes roasted in the pan drippings until crisp, alongside charred broccolini tossed with lemon zest and sea salt.
We sat side by side on barstools at the island, avoiding the formal dining table, where we’d be forced to look each other in the eye.
The atmosphere was one of quiet civility, the only sound that of our forks and knives clinking on our plates.
After we ate, I stood at the sink, washing and rinsing, stepping back each time he reached for a plate to dry it.
We moved like two platonic roommates, careful not to let our skin brush, operating with a stiff, unnatural courtesy.
He never touched me.
The breathless, savage, and sensational sex we shared in Capri now seemed like a dream, a hazy vision that was already slipping from my memory.
I missed the laughter, intimacy, and ease we experienced those last few days of our unintended honeymoon.
I wondered if that sensual version of my husband would ever come back to me.
The following day, I found him in the kitchen at breakfast.
He was pouring black coffee into a mug, dressed in inky denim and a faded band tee, handsome as fuck.
‘Morning,’ I murmured in the quiet room.
‘Hey,’ he replied, setting the pot down without looking at me. ‘Coffee’s hot.’
That’s when I pulled up my big girl boots and took an inhale.
‘Hey, Angel, I’m sorry for losing it at you before we left Capri.’
He reared back in surprise, eyes raking me.
‘I’m the one who has to apologize for being a dick.’
‘You were one at the end, but I forgive you,’ I told him with a wry smile.
We eyed each other for a beat before his mouth quirked.
‘Truce?’
I nodded.
‘Good luck at the studio today.’
What else could I say?
‘Appreciate it,’ he grunted, grabbing his leather jacket off the back of the chair. ‘By the way, the removalists are locked in and will be waiting for you at your place. They’re end-to-end, so they’ll pack and unpack so please don’t overwork yourself. Also, don’t wait up tonight; I might be late.’
With that, he sauntered toward his underground garage, and I soon caught the growl of his Defender racing away.
Later, I drove to my little apartment and guided the removal team.
I picked out my clothes and folded the others away, which went into storage, along with my furniture and kitchenware.
The moving crew packed my canvases into specialized boxes, and by nightfall, they littered Angel’s spacious living room.
I spent the next three days scattering my oil paintings and charcoal sketches throughout his hallways with his blessing.
I hung a vibrant abstract landscape above his marble fireplace, adding a splash of natural greens, creams, and gold to the room.
Angel walked through the front door after work one day, pausing to study the transformation.
‘Looks amazing, Rox.’
A surge of relief washed over me, melting a fraction of my lingering doubt.
‘With me,’ he rasped unexpectedly.
He led me down the lower-level stairs past a half-open soundproofed door, revealing his state-of-the-art home recording studio packed with vintage guitars and mixing consoles.
Then, he unlatched a second door adjacent to his studio.
‘This is for you,’ he announced, gesturing inside.
I stepped into a sprawling den featuring a magnificent, floor-to-ceiling view of the stunning backyard garden.
The afternoon light flooded the room, highlighting a brand-new wooden easel and a massive table packed with art supplies.
I’d noticed him coming into the house the last few evenings, with bulky packages in hand.
I never thought to ask him why.
‘You converted your spare room into my personal art space? For me?’
My jaw dropped, my heart doing ridiculous backflips.
I had never had enough square footage for a proper studio, always cramming my canvases into tiny living and bedroom corners.
‘Are you for real right now?’ I gasped, my eyes stinging with sudden tears. ‘Angel, this is perfect.’
‘You need room to create, Roxy,’ he said, a genuine smile softening his rugged face. ‘Now we can both make our beautiful craft down here together.’
I sensed the room was his penance, his attempt to appease me further and smooth the friction after Capri.
I tilted my head, studying him. ‘Thank you.’
His eyes flickered with a semblance of relief. ‘You’re welcome.’
ANGEL
Returning to Nashville was a massive switch in routine, forcing me out of my laid-back holiday mood and into a relentless 24/7 grind.
I cleared my inbox, which was full of emails from Mason, our label execs, my accountant, and even my lawyers.
I hammered out brutal practice schedules with my Six Sinners brothers, and spent mind-numbing hours finalizing my annual tax with Tori, my financial advisor.
Through all the noise, my brain kept circling back to Roxy, and every time, an immense rush of affection hit my chest.
I liked her, a lot.
We shared deep conversations, had similar preferences and interests, and even better, the sex between us had been out of this world.
Hell, explosive and euphoric never came close to defining how well we fit together, and not just once, but multiple times.
I got lost in memories of the countless orgasms we gave each other, followed by long, passionate kisses and drowsy, full-body skin-to-skin cuddles.
To say I bonded with Roxy in Capri was an understatement.
However, I needed to heal a whole lot more before letting her back in.
My most recent and toxic phone call from Evangeline was still taking up space in my head, and the residual fury over her wedding-day betrayal still gnawed at me.
I owed it to Roxy to process my own emotional baggage before trying to build a true foundation with her.
I wasn’t going to drag my mess into her world.
Especially when Evangeline was relentless, her onslaught continuing as she tried to get my attention.
She sent me messages, which I deleted.
She started blowing up my Instagram DMs and email, with massive paragraphs reminiscing about our former love.
She kept insisting she missed us.
I ignored them all and erased every last one.
Fuck her.
I was done.
I rushed through traffic, cursing as cars threaded in and out of the highway at speed.
Reese and Elsa were descending on my house for dinner.
Earlier in the week, Reese issued an icy mandate through his personal assistant, demanding the meeting and flexing his authority.
I loathed his entitlement and had zero desire to see his mug, yet I was curious why he was so insistent on coming by.
I parked my Defender in the driveway at five o’clock to help Roxy with the heavy lifting.
Roxy was holding it down in the kitchen, roasting a fragrant lemon-herb chicken and asparagus.