Chapter 25
Holland
The storm roars outside; rain pounds a deafening rhythm against the window. But somehow, in spite of all that, the world feels silent. Phoenix’s hands are tight on my waist, his lips centimeters from my own, and the only thing I can really hear is the sound of our breathing.
“So the razor thing,” I say again, and Phoenix rolls his eyes.
“What about it?” he says impatiently. “You can’t use my razor to shave your legs. Buy your own.”
“It’s just that I sort of already did,” I admit, tightening my arms around his neck. “Use your razor, I mean. The one you keep by the sink in your bathroom.”
His head rears back; even in the shadows I can see him blink at me.
I nod, trying not to laugh at his indignance. “Just once, because mine broke. So…is that a dealbreaker?”
“Good grief, Holland,” he mutters under his breath, looking pained. “You can’t use my stuff like that.”
“It’s just a razor?—”
“It’s not just a razor, ” he says hotly. “It’s a boundary —” But he breaks off and glares at me. “And didn’t I tell you we would only have this argument if you kissed me?”
“You also said that if I kissed you, I would be yours.” There’s something light and airy bubbling up in my chest, something giddy.
“Yes,” he says, his eyes still narrowed on me. “You’ll be mine. So what? You still can’t use my razor.”
“So we’ll have a joint bank account, right?” I say with a shrug. “Which means what’s mine is yours and what’s yours is mine.”
He puffs out a little laugh of disbelief. “You have two seconds to drop it, you complete menace, ” he says against my lips then, “or I’m going to?—”
“What?” I say with a smirk. “Throw me over your shoulder? Pin me to a bookshelf? Put a dead fish in my mailbox?”
“Kiss you,” he says, grinning; I can feel every word he speaks. “Kiss you first and forever and I swear , Holland, if you use my razor again?—”
“ Sweetheart ,” I say, pressing the word to his lips. “I like sweetheart. ”
“ Sweetheart ,” he says, his hands on my waist pulling me to the edge of the desk. “Fine.”
Silence, stillness, for the space of two long seconds—infinity suspended in an hourglass, my pulse thrumming at the glaze of sheer longing in his eyes.
I don’t know who moves first. One instant our eyes are locked, our breath mingling, and the next we’re kissing—desperate, determined, the breaking of a dam. We fall into the motions with ease, the back-and-forth tug, the tilt of our heads, the slide of our lips.
“Such a pain,” he breathes as he breaks away and skims his lips up my jaw.
“At least I’m not in a secret relationship with my razor —ow!” I say, laughing as he nips at my ear.
“Don’t be rude,” he murmurs between the kisses he trails back down my jaw. When his lips meet mine again, they’re hungrier, more demanding; his hands slide up my sides, and I scoot closer until I’m about to fall off the desk.
And it hits me just as his tongue traces the seam of my lips: he’s right.
I think I’m going to fall in love with my husband.
The storm lasts through the night.
We search all the supply closets in the building when it’s time to go to bed, but we can’t find any blankets or pillows—not surprising, but still disappointing. So we end up lying on the hard floor in Phoenix’s office, our heads propped on the cushions we’ve removed from his leather chairs.
“So now that you’re madly in love with me,” I say—Phoenix snorts from next to me—“I have some questions.”
“No questions,” he says, his eyes closed. “Go to sleep.” He’s lying on his back, one hand resting neatly on his stomach; his other hand is by his side, fingers tangled loosely with mine.
“You don’t really think I can sleep on this floor, do you?” I say with a frown. “It’s like granite.”
He hums. “Such a snob.”
“I’m not a snob!” I say. It’s mostly true. “I just can’t rest on surfaces this hard. So let me ask my questions.” When he doesn’t answer, I roll my eyes. “Don’t pretend. I will pay you actual money if you fall asleep, because I don’t think it will happen. You sleep on a million-dollar mattress.”
“ We sleep on a million-dollar mattress.”
My heart stutters in my chest.
“Fine. Yes,” I say. “Now we sleep on a million-dollar mattress. My point is that we’re not going to be able to sleep here, so we may as well chat to pass the time. So tell me. Did you?—”
“If you’re going to ask me questions, I’ll get to ask you some too, and you’ll have to answer honestly,” he says, his voice lazy, his eyes still closed. “Can you handle that— sweetheart? ” His lips quirk at the word—which is going to take some getting used to.
I hesitate for only a second. “Yes. Deal.” Then, wanting to clarify, I add, “And you’ll be honest too?”
“Mmm…yes,” he says with a little tilt of his head. “I’ll be honest.” His eyes flutter open as he turns his head to look at me.
“I don’t even know where to start,” I say. “I have so many questions.”
He snorts. “You can’t have that many. I’m not particularly mysterious.”
What a liar. “Okay, I have my first one. When we kissed in that closet?—”
“By accident?—”
“Did you like it?”
He’s silent for a second; his eyes narrow as they flit over my face. “How old were you then? Over eighteen?”
“Yes,” I say, rolling my eyes. “I was legal.”
“Then yes,” he says. “I liked it, much to my chagrin. I thought about it more than I should have.”
When I raise my brows at him, he shrugs. “You were Trev’s little sister, just a kid. I wasn’t supposed to think about kissing you.”
“Ah, yes,” I say as a particularly loud boom of thunder sounds outside; I startle and then go on. “You were ensnared by my charm.”
He snorts. “Hardly. But you did make an impression. It was…not at all what I expected. ”
“Were you expecting it to be bad?”
“No,” he says slowly. “I was just expecting someone else. So I wasn’t expecting it to feel personal. But it did.” He pauses and then says, “You kissed me like you liked me.”
“I did,” I say with a sigh. “A little bit, anyway. Poor baby Holland.”
“You turned out all right.”
Considering that our fingers are tangled together and our hair is mussed and one of the buttons on his shirt is still unbuttoned…he’s not wrong.
“So I’m yours, huh?”
He hums, his eyes flashing. “I made that clear.” His voice is reluctant as he continues. “I’m not a romantic man, Holland. I don’t buy flowers or write poetry. And I’ve never been shown what a healthy marriage looks like. But you’re mine. I’ll keep you safe; I’ll treat you well.”
A laugh slips out of me. “Yeah, right—” But I break off when his hand clamps over my mouth.
“I’ve always treated you well,” he says as I try to lick his palm. “You’re the one who treats me terribly. Stop—that— gross, Holl?—”
“What did you think was going to happen?” I say when he yanks his hand away, wiping it on my shirt. “No—don’t wipe that on me!”
“Reap what you sow, sweetheart,” he murmurs with a grin, reaching for me. “Now answer my questions.”
“One question,” I say quickly as he pulls me closer, until his arm rests over my waist and our faces are separated by mere inches. “If I only got one question, you only get one.”
“You can have more,” he says. “But it’s my turn first. Do you want kids?”
I blink at him in surprise, but he just waits for my answer .
“Yes,” I say. “Not right now, but someday. Do you?”
“Sure,” he says, his arm tightening around me, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on my back.
“Now my turn,” I say. I clear my throat. “What did you think of my wedding dress?”
“Are these the only questions you’re going to ask?” he says. “You just want to know what I’ve thought of you in the past?”
“It’s not all I’m going to ask, but I want to start there. I want to see how long you’ve been pining after me?—”
He lets out a short bark of a laugh that cuts pleasantly through the dark office. “You’re going to be disappointed. There’s been very little pining involved.”
“Just humor me,” I say, nudging him with my elbow. “Answer the question.”
“The wedding dress was perfect,” he says with a sigh, but there’s still a sparkle of amusement in his eyes. “I first admitted I was attracted to you that night in the honeymoon suite. And your pink silk pajamas are the bane of my sanity. Is that good enough?”
“Close,” I say, and I can’t stop my own smile spreading over my face. “Are you in love with me?”
“Hmm,” he says, looking thoughtful now. He doesn’t point out that this is my second question in a row, and I don’t bring it up. There’s a little furrow in his brow as he looks at me, his gaze darting over my features. “It’s difficult to say,” he says finally. “I’m not sure our relationship has ever been conventional.” He pauses, and something shifts in his expression—a flash of hesitation, or maybe insecurity, that disappears as soon as I spot it. “Are you in love with me?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “Can you be in love with someone who drives you crazy? ”
“I think most couples would say yes,” he says dryly. “You trust me, enough to marry me. Enough to—” He breaks off, and heat floods into my cheeks as his gaze skims down my body. He grins but doesn’t finish his sentence.
“I trust you,” I say quickly. “I guess ?—”
“Oh, please.”
“And I guess I like being around you sometimes?—”
“ Sometimes? ”
“And I can admit that you have some appealing character traits,” I finish.
“Such as?”
“You’re competent,” I say, because I did promise I would answer truthfully. “Which is weirdly attractive. You’re straightforward. You know right from wrong. You’re smart. And I just—” I let out a gust of breath, finally allowing myself to be vulnerable. I let go of the flippant compliments, and when I speak again, my voice is softer. “I think I like you.”
“Mmm,” he says, nuzzling my nose with his. His expression is more gentle now. “Do you?”
“Yes,” I say. “You give me butterflies, you excite me—but you also make me feel secure. I like you.”
“I’m a likable man,” he whispers, and the hand around my waist moves to my face, brushing a few strands of hair off my forehead. A cocky smile twitches over his lips, and I roll my eyes—even as contented relief spreads over me.
I wasn’t sure how it would be, taking this step. Because Phoenix is right; nothing about our relationship is conventional. Suddenly choosing to be together, choosing to own up to the feelings stirring between us—I wasn’t sure how that would change us or our interactions.
But the only thing that feels different is my confidence that he doesn’t actually dislike me, even when we’re arguing. He couldn’t touch me as tenderly as he does if he really disliked me. Being physical with him feels very natural, and this isn’t the first time he’s showing me a softer side.
“Let’s try to get some sleep,” he says, pulling me closer. “Tomorrow will come soon enough, and you’re a monster when you’re tired.”
“Excuse you,” I say, but my eyes are already drifting closed. “I am delightful always.”
He snorts. “I have quite the array of evidence to the contrary.” Then he drops a tiny kiss on my nose. “Go to sleep.”
I tuck my head under his chin, and he adjusts immediately, shifting so the position is more comfortable for both of us.
“We need to redo the contract,” I murmur into his chest. “Or just get rid of it.”
“Get rid of it,” he says with a nod. “We will.” Then he sighs, his hand playing absently with my hair. “I never let myself think about stuff like this—holding you, touching you. But…”
“It’s nice,” I finish for him. I snuggle further into him, and his arm tightens around me.
“It is,” he admits.
“Hey,” I say as a question pops into my mind. “What am I supposed to call you?”
“I don’t know,” he says after a second. I can feel his jaw moving against the top of my head as he goes on. “Just not Flamingo .”
I smile, pulling back slightly and tilting my head up. “ Honeybuns? ” I say.
“Pass,” he says in a dry voice.
“ Sweetie Pie? ” I press a kiss to the base of his neck.
“Also pass. ”
“What about Baby? ” Another kiss, longer this time, right over his Adam’s apple. His breath hitches.
“Holland,” he says, warning in his voice.
“Hmm?” I move up to his jaw, skimming my nose over his skin until I find a good place for my lips. “ Babe? ” Kiss. “ Lover? ”
“We’re supposed to be sleeping,” he says as his hands clench convulsively, digging into my skin.
“Mm-hmm.” I press a kiss to the spot just below his ear—and that’s when he snaps.
He curses softly and hauls me up, his lips finding mine in a searing kiss. “Call me whatever you want,” he growls.
I just smile and kiss him back.
Because the storm has knocked out cell service, Phoenix doesn’t receive Mavis Butterfield’s raging message until the next day. I can tell something is wrong immediately; his face hardens as he listens to what sounds like an angry tirade, and when he puts his phone down, he looks as grim as I’ve ever seen him.
“It would seem that Mavis has somehow gotten hold of our contract,” he says.
My heart sinks as a jolt of panic hits. “She did?”
Phoenix gives a clipped nod as his lips turn down even further. “And now she’s demanding an immediate audience with me…” He trails off, his eyes flying to mine. “And my fake wife.”