24. Neomi
We’re wheels down in Austin a few hours later, and the driver takes us straight to the Argent so I can collect my things. The hotel has always been a placeholder for me. I’ve lived out of suitcases for years. But this time is different.
This time, I’m not moving to another city, I’m moving in with my husband.
In my suite, Lars sits on the couch while I head to the bedroom.
“Will thirty minutes be enough time?” he asks.
“I’ll be ready in about fifteen,” I answer.
Years of moving have taught me efficiency, clothes folded, laptop secured, my vibrator in the side pocket. There’s an unopened box of condoms still there. I laugh when I turn it over in my hand and a hazy memory of Lars insisting that we no longer use condoms last night rises in my mind.
“Guess I won’t need these,” I mutter before throwing the box in the trash bin.
I head to the bathroom and pack all my toiletries.
I place the last of my shoes in the zippered compartment of my suitcase and take one last scan of the room.
I pause and catch my reflection in the mirror.
I can’t help but notice the ring on my finger.
All the events of the past twenty-four hours are setting in as the leftover alcohol of my hangover has worn off.
I roll my suitcase out to the main room and Lars rises and takes the handle.
“Ready, Bella?”
“I think so,” I answer.
He pauses, his hand leaving my suitcase and gripping my jaw. “Are you sure you’re okay with this? This is your last chance. Once I bring you into my home, you’re mine, Neomi.”
I clasp his wrist, grounding myself in him. “I’m yours, Lars.”
His breath leaves him in a sharp exhale. “Jesus, Bella.” His mouth curves. “If we had more time, I’d put you back on that bed and fuck you.”
He kisses me—deep, possessive, and unhurried—and I melt like I always do. When he pulls back, his voice is rough.
“Let’s go before I actually do it.”
We stop at the front desk on the way out. One hand rests lightly on my back while the other settles the bill. He doesn’t glance at the total. Just closes the account and tucks his card back in his wallet.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I say once we’re on the sidewalk.
“Bella, one thing you’ll learn is that my family’s business is very profitable. You’ll pay for nothing, want for nothing, as long as you’re mine.”
“I have my own money, Lars. I don’t need to be some kept mob wife.”
He laughs softly, leaning down to kiss my hair. “I know. And I love that about you. You’ll adjust, though.”
When we step into his condo, I stop just inside the door.
It’s immaculate and expensive. The space smells like him—soap, spice, something darker underneath—but it feels oddly untouched.
Lars rolls in my suitcase, turning to me. “This is just a temporary spot for me, so don’t judge the aesthetic. My penthouse in Chicago is much more comfortable.”
He takes my bag down the hall, then reappears a moment later.
“Are you hungry?”
“Always,” I say. “But I should warn you, I’ve been living on hotel room service and airport snacks. My expectations are tragically low.”
“Good,” he replies. “Then it’ll be easy to impress you.”
He disappears into the kitchen, and I follow, leaning against the counter as he moves with easy familiarity—opening drawers without thinking, pulling ingredients from the fridge. He reaches for something in the pantry and comes back holding an apron.
I blink. Then laugh. “Oh. Oh, wow.”
He pauses, his eyebrow lifting. “What?”
“You cook,” I say slowly, watching as he ties the apron around his waist. “And you own an apron.”
“I don’t order takeout,” he says. “It’s a waste of money and usually disappointing. And I like to keep my clothes clean.”
“Lars.” I grin. “This is deeply attractive information.”
He huffs a quiet laugh and turns back to the stove. My gaze lingers on him. The sight of this tall, unfairly handsome man cooking is turning me on.
I sit in one of the chairs at the island. “You paint your nails.”
He glances down at his hands, then back at me. “I do.”
“It suits you,” I reply.
Something shifts in his expression. “I like it,” he says simply. “Always have. When I was a teenager, I used to ask my Aunt Vi to paint my nails when she did hers.”
I tilt my head, studying him. “I know about your profession…is there any other important information I should know?”
He turns to the stove. “I’m bisexual.”
“Oh,” I say. I search for the words, wanting to be sensitive but needing confirmation. “Will being married to me be an issue?”
He shakes his head. “Men aren’t a necessity, but I’ve been with both sexes in the past. I guess I’ve never denied myself an experience based on what gender a person identifies with.”
“That makes sense.” I shrug. “If I’m being honest, I think women are beautiful. I’ve never been with one, but I don’t know that I would turn the opportunity down if it landed in front of me.”
The scent of food fills the space—garlic, heat, something rich. It’s comforting.
Lars taps the wooden spoon on the rim of the pan, then turns to me, leaning over the island, taking my hand in his.
“Look at me, Bella.”
I do.
“You,” he says quietly, “are everything I need.” Then a grin breaks through. “But if you ever want to explore anything…I’m open.”
I stare at him. “You’re unhinged.”
“I prefer the term honest.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Good.” He pushed off the marble and goes back to the pan. “Food is almost ready. We’ll eat and then I need to go to a meeting. Will you be okay here by yourself?”
“Sure.”
When he plates the food and sets it in front of me, it’s steak and broccolini. It’s plated more beautifully than some high-end restaurants I’ve dined in.
“You took this meal seriously.”
He takes my hand in his. “It’s our first proper meal as a married couple. It needed to be good.”
His hand leaves mine as he picks up his silverware and begins to eat. I take a moment to catch up because I’m thinking about how easily I could fall for my husband.