3. Astrid
ASTRID
I can still feel the cayenne from the “sassy shrimp” in the back of my throat, and that was two lemon garlic shrimp and a glass of water ago.
Fine, it was a glass of water and half a lemon-garlic shrimp ago.
The other one and a half shrimp are in my purse along with the two other sassy shrimp someone put on my plate.
Why does Bruce need another spicy shrimp dish on his menu? He’s already got Bruce’s Best Shrimp, which I was tricked into trying during my first week in Rebel. I lost taste buds I’ll never get back.
And even his lemon garlic shrimp is spicier than necessary. Why? Lemon isn’t spicy. Garlic isn’t spicy. I love them both. Why the hell does it need to also have red pepper flakes and paprika?
These people actually believe that their food has to hurt them to be good.
But I moan as I bite into the bacon-wrapped bourbon and brown sugar-glazed shrimp. Yep, as expected, this one is the one I like best. I mean…bacon. But also, this is the first one that doesn’t feel like Bruce is using it to try to kill me.
Too bad the other four judges for the Perks and Rec Shrimp Spectacular—which is really just five people taste-testing new flavors for inclusion on the café’s menu, but they give big, over-the-top names to everything—are born-and-bred Louisianians.
They’ll probably call bacon-wrapped shrimp boring.
I had to pay a hundred bucks to sit on this judging panel anyway, and my not-Louisiana roots are suspect whenever food is involved.
As I chew, I surreptitiously slip another of the spicy-as-fuck-lemon-garlic-shrimp into my purse.
I can’t leave it on my plate. I can vote against it, but I can’t not eat it.
Bruce has already refused to serve me iced tea because I committed the unforgivable sin of adding an artificial sweetener in public. He's also threatened to ban me if I —
“Declan!”
My head jerks up, and I start choking as a piece of shrimp slides to the back of my throat.
My coughing is the only sound in the otherwise suddenly silent coffee shop-slash-bar.
All eyes turn to me. But not because I’m choking. No one makes a move to save my life. They’re simply curious about my reaction to my husband walking in.
My eyes are watering slightly, but I manage to swallow the piece of shrimp, clear my throat—no thanks to the two firefighters and one nurse present—and pull myself together. At least outwardly.
Inwardly, I’m thinking two things: oh, shit, and of course Wilson told him where to find me.
Declan O’Grady isn’t the type of guy to just sit down on the top step of my porch and wait.
Even though I did enjoy picturing that for the second…or sixty…that I had it in mind.
“What are you doing here?” Nora Delaune, the town’s Parks and Rec director and mistress of ceremonies for this taste-testing (Nora is the mistress of ceremonies for everything that happens in Rebel) asks Declan.
She’s now standing directly in front of him, obviously one of the first to notice when he walked in.
Which is great. Nora can handle almost any situation.
Though until he speaks, I’m not sure he’s even noticed her.
Because he hasn’t taken his eyes off me.
This makes it very difficult to breathe. Separate from the cayenne lingering at the back of my throat and the seafood I just tried to inhale mostly whole.
“Hello, future sister-in-law,” he says, with a smile. “I’m here to see my wife, of course.”
That smooth, rich, deep voice I haven’t heard in four months rolls over me and does what it always does—makes me very aware of my skin.
That sounds weird, but that’s exactly what happens. My skin gets warmer and tingly, and I get very aware of my clothes against it. All of it. Every single inch. And then the stupid urge to have fewer clothes against it tries to take over.
Just from the guy’s voice. Not what he says specifically, just him talking in general.
But that ‘my wife’ thing makes my skin really aware and makes it even harder to breathe.
Of course, I know I’m his wife. Technically anyway.
But hearing him say the words is…not something I was prepared for.
I swallow hard again and have to cough slightly.
By now, half of the café is staring at him, and the other half is staring at me.
“Well, of course,” Nora says sunnily.
Nora says most things sunnily, but I’ve now known her long enough to realize that this is slightly fake sunnily. Like she’s just a little uncomfortable and not sure what’s going on.
Fair enough.
I don’t know what’s going on either.
Why is Declan here? Why now?
We have one week left. We’ve been living apart for ten months, and we only have to make it seven more days, and this whole farce will be over.
Why the hell is Declan O’Grady in Rebel, Louisiana, now?
“We should be done here in just a few minutes,” Nora says to Declan. “Then she’s all yours.”
My stomach reacts to that, but not with the panic it should.
Oh, no, there’s a twist of heat in reaction to being ‘all his’ that is not okay.
I have never been more attracted to a man in my entire life.
There are a lot of reasons for that, of course.
Declan is objectively good-looking. I don’t think there’s a woman, or even a man, who would deny that.
Dark hair, dark eyes, and a trimmed short beard all give him a broody, intimidating air. He’s six-three, in great shape, and has impeccable—and expensive—taste in everything from suits to soap.
But the real problem isn't the body or face.
It's that Declan has spent nearly two decades fixing everyone else's problems. His family. My family. Our entire little home country.
He's given up more than most people know, so the rest of us could chase our dreams.
Apparently, self-sacrificing competence is my kryptonite.
So, yes, I’m attracted to who Declan is as well as his pecs, and shoulders, and face. I like a lot of things about him. Unfortunately.
But dammit, I’m really physically attracted to him as well. More than I ever have been to anyone else in my life.
It’s gotten to the point where I can barely think when we're alone together.
Which is a huge problem.
That I solved by simply not being alone with him. Ever.
“Well, as you all know, it’s been a while since I saw my lovely bride,” Declan says to Nora.
Then he does the worst possible thing that he could—he gives the entire café a devastatingly gorgeous, charming grin.
Oh, fuck me.
He’s resistible when he’s being a growly, pensive man of few words. Barely, for sure, but it is possible.
My palms sweat, my nipples bead, and my lungs forget how to work even when he’s staring at me from across a small-town coffee shop, but I’m not vaulting out of my chair and running into his arms, am I?
But he can’t go around actually fucking grinning.
And he can’t say self-deprecating things like ‘it’s been a while since I saw my bride’.
As if he knows the entire town is annoyed that he doesn’t live here with me.
As if he knows everyone in this café listens to the gossip podcast back home that's spent months speculating about our marriage and what Miles moving across the street might mean.
Our wedding had been huge news in Cara. Then we'd given everyone absolutely nothing. No public appearances. No trips home together. No kissing. No hand-holding. No fodder.
Then I moved to Louisiana. Without Declan.
Suddenly everyone had theories again.
It’s… a lot.
I'd honestly expected—and hoped—all the gossip would push him into saying fuck it and ending this whole marriage.
It hasn't.
His lack of irritation with me is extremely irritating.
“You’ve waited all this time,” a voice calls from somewhere in the café. “I think you can wait a few more minutes.”
I scan the room and locate Brewser, a Perks and Rec regular. He is also a pillar of the community.
“You’ve got a point,” Declan agrees.
I frown. He’s supposed to glare at people who second-guess and disparage him.
“But I know that you’ve all gotten to know Astrid very well by now. It should come as no surprise to you that now that I’m finally here and have set eyes on her again, it’s impossible for me to put off our reunion for even five more minutes.”
There are actually a few audible sighs heard around the room and many grins.
I narrow my eyes at him.
They’re not supposed to like him.
He’s not supposed to be charming. Or romantic. Definitely not romantic.
We don’t have reunions.
We don’t pine for each other.
What is going on?
But he meets my gaze directly, and damn him, he gives me a little smirk.
And my body reacts.
I don’t think he knows that that happens.
I pray to God he doesn’t know that happens.
It’s bad enough that I do. But just seeing him standing in the doorway in his ever-present suit, his hair a bit mussed from travel and maybe the Louisiana humidity and wind, already has my heart rate kicked up and my palms a little damp. And, of course, his voice.
That smirk makes body parts inside my panties react, and that ticks me off.
Because those body parts get excited and then can’t actually deliver any fun.
“Well, of course, we understand that,” a female voice that I instantly recognize as Muriel Coffelt replies.
I roll my eyes.
The town has divided into teams, Team Declan and Team Miles.
Several of the people on Team Miles are actually more Team Anti-Declan.
I very much appreciate how much loyalty everyone is showing me. They’re upset that my husband has “abandoned” me here in Louisiana, ignoring the fact that I came here without him rather than him bringing me here and then leaving me.
Everyone has decided that it’s a travesty that my husband would let me live here alone without him, and I’ve chosen to ignore that incredible lack of feminist energy for the sake of my own cause.