Chapter 19
LIAM
“I—I actually can’t come out,” Peyton whimpers from behind the curtain.
I’m wary of even asking as I grit out, “Why?”
“I’m sort of… mmm… mostly naked.”
She can’t see me, but I still turn, stick my fist into my mouth, and bite.
The images my brain conjures are unhelpful.
I release my fist from between my teeth and shake out my hand.
“How naked is ‘mostly’?” The question comes out strangled.
“Like… panties only.”
Kill me the fuck now.
I shrug my suit jacket off my shoulders and approach the window, letting it dangle from two fingers near the edge of the drapes. “Put this on.”
I stare away, but still catch in my peripheral vision her pale hand as it shoots out from the folds of fabric, snatches the jacket, and retreats.
“Turn around,” she hisses.
I don’t just turn; I pace away. Put the desk between us. Create distance. The idea of her sliding her arms into my sleeves is problematic enough on its own.
I stare out the window on the opposite corner. The lake is a flat sheet, mirroring the sky. A heron stands motionless at the end of my dock.
Behind me, the drapes rustle. The distance doesn’t spare me the shift of her skin on the silk lining of my suit, the soft huff of breath, or the low swish of her hair being shaken out from beneath the collar.
“Okay,” she says. “I’m decent. Ish.”
I turn. And wish I could bite down on my fist again.
My jacket is far too big for her. It hangs past her hips like a dress—a very short one that skims the tops of her thighs.
Her legs stretch endlessly as if they belong to a much taller woman.
The sleeves fall over her hands, the shoulders drooping.
She’s so much shorter than me that the button stance sits too low, the lapels gaping open in a deep, plunging V that reveals the pale swell of her generous curves.
Still no visible tattoos.
Her hair is a disaster of dark curls tumbling over one shoulder, wild and untamed, making her look like she just rolled out of bed. Or like she should be rolling back into one.
Preferably mine.
She looks mine, draped in that jacket. It triggers a primitive, lizard-brain possession instinct I wasn’t aware I had.
I do my best not to stare. But I don’t know what my face is doing, because pink blooms across her cheeks.
I shove my hands into my pockets. “Why were you hiding naked in my study?”
“How did you even know I was there?”
“I saw a toe peeking out, thought I was hallucinating.”
Peyton tugs the jacket tighter. “Well, I wasn’t hiding. I was trapped.”
“Behind my curtains.”
“Yes.”
“Without clothes.”
I wait. She huffs, crossing her arms over her chest in a way that pushes everything up and makes my life significantly harder.
“I took a bath,” she says. “Then I came downstairs to grab my leggings from one of the boxes.”
“In your panties?”
“I was going to be quick. In and out. I didn’t bother with clothes because you said you’d be home at eight.
” She jabs a finger at me. “You came back four hours early with your father in tow. I heard the door and panicked. I darted into the first room I found.” She gestures at the study.
“And then you two walked in, and I got trapped.”
“Riveting.”
She scoffs. “I’m glad you’re entertained.” Aggravated would be more like it. “It’s not like I spent twenty minutes terrified of flashing the patriarch of the Rockwood dynasty.”
“You mostly flashed the lake. I’m sure the fishermen appreciated the show.”
“You’re a jerk.”
“Feel free to file a complaint later.”
“Yeah, to whom? Roger? Who even is Roger?”
“Our family lawyer. At least you heard everything. Saves me the trouble of breaking the news about the postnup.”
Peyton stiffens. Her arms drop to her sides, fists clenching in the too-long sleeves. The playful indignation vanishes, replaced by a rigid pride that straightens her spine.
“Yeah, I heard,” she says. “I’ll sign it.”
“Just like that?”
“Yes. Just like that.” She lifts her chin. “I don’t want your family’s money, or shares in your company. I married you to protect my parents, not for a payday.”
Most people, hearing they were being offered a hundred grand a year just to stay married, would at least hesitate. They’d calculate. Negotiate. My father expects her to. He views every interaction as a transaction and relationships as a leverage play.
But Peyton looks insulted that the money was even mentioned.
I haven’t known her for long, but I never assumed her to be greedy.
And the confirmation that she isn’t burns a little too warm in my guts.
All that skin on display isn’t helping either.
I haven’t been with a woman in forever—fourteen months—and I’d underestimated how difficult it would be to have a beautiful one living with me. Especially when she ends up mostly naked and in my clothes.
“I figured as much,” I say, rounding the desk and leaning on the shorter side. “But my father likes his paperwork.”
“Fine. Draft it up. I’ll sign whatever waiver you want.” She shifts her weight, and the jacket rides an inch higher on her thigh.
I clear my throat, looking away. “Right. Well. You should go get dressed. Leave the jacket on the bed. I’ll put it away.”
I expect her to bolt. To scurry upstairs and hide behind layers of flannel and pretend this encounter never happened.
Instead, she steps closer.
“Stop ordering me around.”
My gaze snaps to hers. Those brown eyes are lit with annoyance. But they also spark with a challenge.
“Go. Before this gets even more awkward.”
She takes another maddening step closer. She stops right in front of me. Close enough that I can smell the soap she used in the bath—my soap. My clothes. My house. My wife.
“Does giving orders turn you on?”
“What are you doing?” My voice drops to a low growl.
She smirks, a devilish quirk of her lips that makes my blood pressure spike. “Asking a question.”
“And I’m giving you an answer.” I flare my nostrils, gripping the edge of the desk. “Get out of my study before I stop being polite.”
She tilts her head, unfazed. “Is this your concept of polite? Barking at me?”
I stand and hook a finger under her chin to tilt her face up to mine. Her skin is soft, warm. Her pulse flutters at the base of her throat, betraying her bravado.
“My concept of polite,” I hiss, holding her gaze, “is not stripping that jacket off of you myself.”
I wait for her to recoil. To cower. To realize she’s poked the bear and stop playing games.
Instead, her smirk widens. It’s a bluff, yes, but with a distinct edge of daring behind her gaze.
“But you want to,” she whispers.
She lifts a hand and pats my chest, right over my heart.
“Naughty, naughty husband.”
I snap.
I grab her waist and pull her flush against me, spinning us until her back is plastered to the window.
Peyton gasps as I press her against the glass, pinning her there with my hips, my palm flat next to her face. Her smirk vanishes into a startled ‘O.’
“You think this is funny?” I snarl, leaning down until our noses almost touch.
She swallows, her chest heaving against mine. The friction of the wool jacket against my shirt is electric.
“I—” She licks her lips.
My gaze drops to the movement, tracking the shine of moisture on her mouth.
“This morning,” I say through gritted teeth, “you seemed ready to be a naughty wife. Ogling me in my towel.”
Her breath hitches against my jaw.
“So let me be clear.” I press closer, my thigh sliding between hers, the jacket riding up. “In this arrangement, sex is off the table.”
For a beat, she’s silent. Her chest keeps rising and falling against mine, rapid and uneven.
Then she finds her voice.
“Is that why you’re mansplaining it to me,” she says, breathless but pointed, “while keeping me pressed to a window?”
The words are a bucket of ice water.
I release her as if she’s caught fire. Step back. Put three feet of empty air between us, my pulse roaring in my ears.
What the fuck am I doing?
Peyton is flushed, tousled, her curls messy, and my jacket is askew on her shoulders. “I apologize.” I turn around, running a hand through my hair. I can’t look at her. “That was out of line.”
I pace away. “I’m a man with functioning eyes and a pulse. You pushed, and I reacted. It won’t happen again.”
I keep my back to her. “Go put some clothes on. Please.”
Her gaze burns between my shoulder blades.
“Fine,” she says, her voice shaky but laced with that stubborn bite. “Since you asked so nicely.”
I listen to the soft pad of bare feet on the hard floor. I don’t turn until I hear her on the stairs.
I cross to the study door and shut it, pressing my palm flat against the wood.
What just happened?
I’m controlled. Calculated. I handle mergers, hostile takeovers, and my father’s impossible expectations without breaking a sweat. But she baited me. That’s the part I can’t get past.
Why? To prove she could? To reclaim power?
I can’t afford a wife who knows how to unhinge me. I have too much riding on the stability of this marriage. I can’t let it turn into a volatile game of cat and mouse.
We need to clear the air. Set some house rules.
I yank the door open and march up the stairs.
Time to reclaim the high ground.