46. Allie
Allie
I spent an hour with Sienna, nimbly dodging all Rico-related topics. Instead, we talked about my upcoming restaurant showcase, her art, and the adorable chaos of teething twins. All subjects that didn’t make my eye twitch or my chest tighten.
Since marrying into the family, I’ve gotten closer to Sienna, not because I don’t want to get to know Violet—I do—but because the reigning Queen of Romance is currently locked away in her writing cave, churning out another novel that will set panties (and probably Kindles) on fire.
The woman writes smut for a living, and judging by how often she and Alex disappear together, she takes her research seriously.
Honestly, the idea of getting paid to live in a world where love always wins, orgasms are life-altering, and broody men miraculously figure out their feelings before completely ruining their relationships sounds…
intriguing. No real-life ghosting, no cold shoulders, no wondering if your husband bought you a restaurant just to get rid of you.
But alas, my reality is not a romance novel.
Because I spent that extra time with Sienna, I ended up staying later at the restaurant, not leaving until almost midnight.
Vinnie looked just as dead on his feet as I felt, and all I wanted was a hot shower, a glass of wine, and my favorite book.
I’d placed one of Violet’s latest releases on my nightstand—signed, because autographed copies comes as a marital perk.
My plan was to dive into it and live vicariously through her heroine, preferably one whose husband actually talks to her.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Vin,” I call over my shoulder as he heads toward his basement unit and I walk through the garage into the house.
I don’t check to see if light creeps out from under Rico’s office door or if his bedroom door is closed.
I also didn’t text him when I was leaving, and—surprise, surprise—he didn’t text me either.
He really found the perfect way to keep me occupied.
The sheer exhaustion of my job, combined with my thoughts tormenting me at every turn, has left me too drained to try anymore.
And that’s exactly what he wanted.
Besides, even if there was a light under that office door, I know what that means—he’s dealing with the hacker problem (as Sienna called it, air quotes and all).
Apparently, it’s causing pressure between him and his brothers, and they think he’s dragging his feet on fixing it, hoping to tank the merger.
I had to hear that from Sienna—not my husband.
Because why talk to your wife when you can talk to anyone else?
So, yeah. I don’t go looking for him. And if this is the peace he wanted, he’s got it.
But if he expects to make an heir, he’ll have to come meet me.
I haven’t given up, but I also refuse to do all the effort. Despite Sienna’s theory that my husband is jealous, she doesn’t see the way he shuts down around me. She doesn’t know how he reads and ignores every message I send. How he’s straight-up told me I mean nothing to him.
I don’t want them to think of him as a monster.
Some things are better left between a couple. Even if I’m dying to talk to someone about it.
My legs scream at me as I take the stairs two at a time, my body officially clocking out for the night.
I don’t bother flipping on the lights when I get to my room, just grab a pair of pajama pants and an oversized T-shirt.
I’ll ditch the pants once I crawl into bed since I always end up kicking them off anyway, but walking around this house exposed doesn’t sit right with me.
Despite the fact that I was very uncovered on our kitchen counter this morning.
Maybe it’s because Rico doesn’t make me feel as though this is my home—no matter how much furniture I’ve added, no matter how many cozy little touches I’ve tried to bring in. It’s still his house. And I’m his contracted roommate.
That’s my reality. And one I need to accept before I fall off the deep end and start hoping for more.
Example one: thinking he was jealous.
Sienna wants me to believe that. But I can’t.
Sure, it would be nice to think my husband gave a shit. That he wanted me. But that’s not what this marriage is to him.
I needed an escape. He needed a wife.
We’re bound for different reasons, but stuck in the same fate.
Where this goes from here is up to both of us.
But I will not be the one dragging him to the finish line, only to end up shattered when he refuses to meet me halfway.
I refuse.
My shower is quick because my grand plan for the night is simple: settle in, read a chapter or two of Violet’s latest book, and pass out. No overthinking. No obsessing over my husband. Just me, a book, and a small glass of white wine.
I tiptoe downstairs, grab a bottle from the wine fridge in the kitchen island, pour myself the perfect (okay, large as hell) glass, then head back up, humming to myself. But the moment I set my wine down and reach for my lavender lotion, I pause.
It’s not there.
Weird.
I check the floor, under my bed, the en suite bathroom, even peek behind the nightstand, because where the hell is it?
And then I notice something else.
My book.
Gone.
Now, the lotion? That could’ve fallen. I could have knocked it over in my pre-coffee morning haze. But the book? I explicitly put it on my nightstand before I left this morning. There is zero chance I misplaced it.
I drop to my knees, wildly searching under the bed, hands fumbling over the plush rug.
And that’s when a voice that should not be there sends my soul straight out of my body.
“Looking for something?”
I yelp, whirling so fast I nearly land on my ass.
Rico stands in the doorway, arms folded, leaning against the frame, exuding the confidence of some arrogant asshole of a Greek statue. And—because my sleep deprivation is clearly making me hallucinate—I swear there’s a gleam of enjoyment in his eyes.
“Did you take my book and lotion?” I accuse, still kneeling, hands on my hips.
He brushes a hand over his jaw, and god help me, that simple action sets my entire body on fire. It’s infuriating. Why does my body have zero survival instincts?
“Didn’t take. Moved.”
I blink at him. Then at the empty nightstand. Then back at him.
I open my mouth, prepared to go full Karen at a customer service desk, but before I can let loose, Rico closes the distance between us in two steps and hooks a single finger under the chain around my neck, tugging it out from under my oversized sleep shirt.
My engagement ring and wedding band dangle between us.
His gaze flicks from the rings back to my empty finger.
I snatch the chain from him, pulling it back and debating if I should slap him with it.
“I didn’t have time to put them back on,” I mutter, unclasping it and sliding the rings off before securing it around my neck again.
With a sigh, I slide my wedding band and my engagement ring back onto my finger.
Even after just a few weeks, a faint tan line has formed where they belong.
As if I needed more of a reminder.
As if the marks Rico left on my skin weren’t enough to let the entire world know someone claimed me.
“Why are they off?” His voice is mild, but his jaw ticks, and something flashes in his eyes.
Is he mad?
I cross my arms. “Because I cook for a living, Rico. Ever heard of food safety? Can’t exactly have a diamond falling into someone’s pasta.”
He stares, his expression indecipherable.
“I have to take them off in the kitchen,” I continue, adjusting the chain and tucking it back under my shirt.
“I usually put them back on before I leave work, but I forgot. I don’t know why this is suddenly a crime.
“ I wiggle my fingers in his face. “See? They’re back where they belong. Crisis averted.”
His silence stretches between us, playing the role of an awkward horror movie jump scare, until finally, he speaks.
“Forgot,” he repeats, voice low, jaw tightening even more.
Okay, Mr. Pissy Pants, join the damn club.
I huff, throwing up my hands. “Where did you move my book and lotion to?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he casually picks up my wineglass and, clearly intending to test me, walks toward the door.
“My room.”
I blink. Then blink again.
Wait.
“You what?” I sputter, marching after him and stealing my glass back. “Your room? Why?”
Rico keeps walking, not even allowing me a peek. “You’re moving there.”
I stop dead on the threshold, staring at his retreating form. He might as well have declared we’re moving to Mars.
“Excuse me? Since when?”
He pauses in the hallway, looking at me as if I’m being unreasonable for questioning why he’s suddenly gone full deranged Sims player by rearranging our living arrangements.
“You’ll be in my room until you’re pregnant. Then you can move back.”
“I—You—What?” I splutter.
Pregnant? Until I’m pregnant? So, I’m some seasonal tenant?
I look around my room, the one I decorated without even seeing it first because Rico, in all his broody control freak glory, insisted we have separate rooms.
I’m on my floor, for crying out loud.
Hell, I’m one missed signature away from being in an entirely different ZIP code.
And now, suddenly, I’m supposed to pack up and move to the dragon’s lair?
And let’s not ignore the fact that this logic makes no damn sense.
Rico stalks toward me, all predator eyes as he closes in on his prey. Annoying, arrogant, sexy-as-hell predator, but predator nonetheless.
“Because you get home late. Last I checked, no sex, no baby. You in my bed means we will. No matter what time.”
I gape at him. Actually gape. “So you’re moving me to your room just to make sure I’m conveniently available for your nightly baby-making agenda?”
“Glad you get it.”
“Oh, I get it.” I cross my arms, doing my best toddler on the verge of throwing a massive fit routine, planted feet and all. “I also reject it.”
“No?”