Chapter 31 Adrianna
Chapter Thirty-One
Adrianna
A week goes by, and somehow my life slips into a rhythm I never saw coming.
Every morning, I go to the bakery, check on the ovens, the staff, the deliveries.
Adele handles the storefront like a champ, Mom does cupcakes and pretzels for the after-school crowd, and I’m finally getting the hang of ordering supplies for two locations since Nathan convinced me—bullied me, really—to reopen the tiny satellite kiosk in town.
Every afternoon, I drive home in time for Bella’s bus, which—miracle of miracles—lets out right at the end of our new block.
Our block.
Our street.
Our house.
My mother is thrilled with the whole situation, mostly because she no longer has to be on Bella-duty 24/7 and also—God help me—because she is apparently dating Mr. Gimble.
Who now insists we call him Steve.
Yep. Steve. Like the dude from Blue’s Clues.
Steve brings her flowers. Steve fixes things around her backyard. Steve takes her out to early dinners at that seafood place the senior discounts should’ve killed decades ago.
And Steve blushes when she smiles at him, which is honestly adorable.
But the craziest part?
The absolutely mind-blowing, surreal part?
My husband, Nathan Freaking Thorn—a man who used to live out of suitcases, who barely slept, who partied on yachts and toured the world—he is here.
Every single day.
Every single night.
Like clockwork.
He cooks dinner.
He helps her with homework even when she pretends she doesn't need help.
He walks Bella to her friend’s house.
He fixed the squeaky hinge on the hall closet and didn’t even brag about it.
He’s surprisingly domestic.
Competent.
Thoughtful.
And damn it all to hell, I am just as in love with him as I ever was.
Which is so fucking frustrating for one major reason.
Ever since our wedding night, Nathan has slept somewhere else.
Not far.
Not distant.
Not cold.
Just—somewhere else.
Sometimes I hear him moving in the small music room off our bedroom, soft chords drifting through the wall like he’s trying not to wake me.
Other nights, he’s in the big studio he had built behind the kitchen, up until God knows when.
A couple of times, I padded out to lock up the bakery receipts and found him asleep on the couch, a notebook full of scribbled lyrics resting across his stomach.
And then there was the night Bella told me—thrilled—that he made her a midnight snack and walked her upstairs “so he didn’t wake his sleepy little Sparky.”
Sleepy. Little. Sparky.
What the actual hell?
He’s over here calling me pet names, feeding my niece grilled cheese at one in the morning, being the most thoughtful man alive, and yet he treats me like a polite acquaintance.
Because he still hasn’t climbed into our bed.
Still hasn’t kissed me once since we moved in.
Not after that Vegas night where he devoured me like he’d been starving for sixteen years.
Not after he washed me tenderly in that ridiculous marble bathtub.
Not after he pressed his lips to my temple the next morning like it meant something.
But maybe it didn’t.
Maybe I read too much into it.
Maybe I fucked it up by asking for space.
And now?
Now I feel like the world’s biggest idiot.
Which is why earlier today, I met Hilary—aka Larry—at the bookstore.
The smell of old paperbacks and cinnamon tea usually relaxes me, but not when she’s staring at me like she’s about to solve a murder case.
She sets her latte down. Hard.
“Okay. Start from the beginning,” she demands. “You knew Nathan Thorn before he was famous, and now he married you and moved you and Bella into his gorgeous mansion to save you from some mafia flunky?”
I choke on my water. “Oh my God, Larry! I did not say Giovanni Russo was in the mob!”
“You didn’t have to.” She flips her laptop around. “Google did.”
I stare at the headline—an article speculating about Russo’s connections.
“Oh my God,” I whisper, blood draining from my face.
She snaps the laptop shut.
“Nope. We’re not spiraling right now. Focus. We’ll deal with him later. Tell me more about Nathan Thorn.”
“This,” I mutter into my sandwich, “is why I never brought him up. I knew you’d be weird.”
“I’m not being weird,” she lies, bouncing in her seat, ironically wearing a Nathan Thorn t-shirt. “I’m being appropriately excited. Now spill.”
I sigh, cheeks warming.
“Fine. It’s nothing. He’s just doing me a solid. For old time’s sake.”
“Uh-huh.” She peers at me over her glasses. “And you went and caught feelings again, didn’t you?”
“Ugh,” I groan, dropping my head into my hands. “I did, okay? I slept with him on our wedding night, and now he just—” I throw my hands up. “He dismisses me! Doesn’t even kiss me on the forehead!”
Larry’s mouth falls open. “He hasn’t touched you since?”
“No! Not once!”
“Have you tried lingerie?”
“What? No!”
“I see. Well then, have you told him?” she asks.
“Told him what?”
“That you’re in love with him,” she says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
“What? I’m not—I couldn’t—”
“OMG! Adrianna, instead of hiding like a freaking coward, just tell the sexy rockstar you’re in love with him!”
I blink at her.
“You’re deranged,” I whisper.
“I’m right,” she singsongs, sipping her latte like her work here is done.
After snagging a few more titles for my Tbr pile, I left Larry and her bad advice and came home.
Back to the present and my stupid, messy heart.
And now I’m home, sitting in the bedroom staring at the empty spot on the bed where he hasn’t slept for weeks, hearing Larry’s voice echoing in my skull.
Just tell him.
Tell him I’m in love with him.
Tell him I never stopped.
Tell him I want our marriage to be real.
But I can’t.
Because what if his silence is the answer?
What if I had finally given him what he’d wanted all along—an out? What if my letting him go without the guilt of him being the first to leave, is all he needed? And what if this time, he doesn’t want me back?
So now?
Now I just lie in this big ass bed all alone every night, surrounded by antique furniture and fresh quilts and all the ghosts of teenage dreams, while my husband—my rockstar, my childhood sweetheart, the man I never stopped loving—keeps a polite distance like he’s scared to spook me.
And I am losing my goddamn mind.
Because he’s still here.
Because he’s steady.
Because he’s perfect.
Because maybe he’s trying.
But mostly because he’s making it so damn easy to love him all over again.
And because I have no idea why—after marrying me, touching me, worshipping me, promising me safety—he won’t just get his fine ass back into this bed and touch me again.
I stare at the ceiling one night, frustration twisting in my chest.
Enough is enough.
Tomorrow, I’m getting answers.
Even if I have to hunt my husband down in his own damn studio to get them.