The Billionaire Husband Who Replaced His Neglected Wife

1. Georgina

— ? —

Georgina

I’m dreaming of the hills.

Green and gold, stretching forever. The Umbrian countryside unrolling beneath me the way it does when I’m riding fast and the wind is pulling my hair loose, and somewhere ahead of me, the path turns and the morning opens wide until I can’t see the end of it.

I never can. That’s the best part.

Then there are lips on my ankle.

Warm, slow, and ticklish, tracing a line up the inside of my calf. My dream fractures at the edges, the fields thinning out as my body starts paying attention before my brain catches up.

A mouth drags over my knee, unhurried as fingertips follow it, skating up the outside of my thigh with a focus that has absolutely no business existing before breakfast.

My eyes open.

Maximillian Costanzo is halfway up my body with a look on his face that should be illegal in every country we own property in.

Morning light pours gold across the bed and gilds the line of his bare shoulders, his hair falling over his forehead in a way that would be boyish on anyone else but on him just looks dangerous. He grins against the inside of my thigh when he realizes I’m awake.

“Morning, princess.” His voice is low, roughed up from sleep, and he lifts his head just enough to meet my eyes with that grin still in place. “Your favorite way to wake up?”

Questo bastardo.

He asks it as if the answer already belongs to him, and the worst part is, it does. Every nerve from my ankle to my thigh is still paying attention to his mouth, which makes it difficult to deliver the sort of answer his ego deserves.

“My favorite method is coffee,” I say, but my fingers are already in his hair, which is a traitor move and we both know it.

I tug him up by the roots, away from where he was absolutely headed, and he comes willingly, crawling over me until his face hovers above mine, forearms braced on either side of my head, close enough that I can see the gold the sunrise puts in his dark eyes.

Max closes the distance and kisses me, his hand sliding into my hair to tilt my head back. I stop pretending I don’t want exactly this.

My fingers curl into his shoulders, pulling him closer, and he makes a low sound against my lips that undoes whatever composure I had left. I kiss him back the way you kiss someone you’ve been missing even when they sleep beside you. Greedy and aching, not nearly enough.

“Liar.” He pulls back with that wide, infuriating smirk while I’m still trying to remember how breathing works, his thumb tracing my lower lip.

“Delusional.” I keep my hands on his shoulders, which weakens my argument considerably.

“Madly in love with me.” He leans down until our noses touch, apparently willing to remain here all morning waiting for a confession.

“Mildly tolerant of you. At best.” I’m laughing, the kind of laugh that starts in my chest before I’ve given it permission, and he catches it with another kiss, this one softer, his thumb brushing my jaw.

For a second, the whole world is just the warmth of his mouth and the weight of him, the morning pouring in around us.

“You’re still here.” I brush his hair away from his forehead, checking for the dampness that means he’s already showered and is about to leave. “Thought you’d be gone by now. You know, training… The usual disappearing act.”

His grin dims at the edges. Max shifts his weight to one arm and pushes my hair off my face with the other, gentle in that way he gets when he knows he’s earned the hit. “I know I’ve been gone too much. I’m not going to give you a speech about it.”

“Good.” I let my hand settle against his neck. “I’d rather have you than a speech.”

“Then you have me.” He kisses my forehead before sitting back on his heels and pointing to the bedside table. “Starting with breakfast.”

I look at the tray. Toast, golden brown and buttered to the edges, beside two cups of coffee that are still steaming.

There’s a little pot of the apricot jam I buy for myself because everyone else insists the marmalade is better.

Apparently, the reigning champion of the elite equestrian has remembered which side of this argument he belongs on.

“You brought the good jam.” I reach for the tray, but he moves it onto the mattress first, away from my elbow.

“I value my marriage.” He braces the tray while I sit up against the pillows. “Also, you keep hiding it behind the flour.”

“Because some people steal it.” I tuck the sheet around my waist and take my coffee. He’s made it the way I like it, and I refuse to admit how much that almost undoes me.

“People live here, Elle.” He takes the other slice of toast and moves his pillow beside mine. “One of them is even married to you.”

I let him have the jam. It’s a generous concession, and from the way he tries to keep a straight face while spreading it, he knows it.

We eat without getting out of bed. He tells me about a young horse that has learned to work its stall latch and now considers opening the neighboring stalls a public service. I suggest putting it in charge of his schedule. Max laughs into his coffee, and I feel absurdly pleased with myself.

There he is, with crumbs on his chest and no one calling him away.

When we’re done, he puts the tray back on the bedside table.

I clip my hair up and get out of bed to wash my face.

For once he doesn’t reach to help me stand.

My bones have healed. They have been healed for months.

I can walk across our bedroom without supervision, even if getting near a saddle is another matter.

By the time I come back, wearing his shirt because I can’t be bothered to find my own, he’s stacked the pillows against the headboard.

I climb in beside him and let my hair loose from its clip.

He promptly drops his head into my lap, settling in with a long exhale as his fingers find the ends of it.

I look down at him.

The sun is full in the room now, catching in his lashes, and his face is open and unguarded in a way it almost never is anymore, not with the season pressing in from every side and the title defense eating him alive while the distance between us is growing in inches I pretend not to measure.

But here… right now, with his head in my lap and his fingers in my hair and his eyes half-closed in the light.

This is the Max I married. The one who used to complain when I got up before he did.

“You really have the whole day?” I stop combing my fingers through his hair because I want him to hear the question. “Not until someone calls?”

He opens his eyes and reaches across to the bedside table. His phone is face down beside the empty tray; he switches it off and puts it in the drawer. “The whole day. Training is covered.”

“Swear.” I keep my hand still, even when he nudges his head against it. He isn’t getting rewarded until he answers.

“I swear.” He turns his head and presses his mouth to my knee. “You’ve got me, Elle. No circuit. Just you.”

I run my fingers through his hair again. I don’t want to spend the time he’s finally giving me cross-examining him about whether he means it. His phone is off, his head is in my lap, and when I lean down to kiss him, he reaches up to meet me.

For once, I let myself have the morning.

***

By the time we dress and go downstairs, I’ve decided I’m not spending the rest of my day with him within reach of his training calendar.

“Take me on a picnic.” I catch his hand before he can turn toward the dining room. “A proper one. Blanket, basket, somewhere nobody will think to look for us.”

Max glances toward the terrace, where a table and perfectly good chairs are waiting. “You want me to carry lunch past all our furniture so we can eat on the ground?”

“I want you to be romantic. Do try to keep up, will you?”

His mouth twitches. “All right. Any other requirements?”

“Yes.” I step closer and straighten a collar that doesn’t need straightening. “You have to look pleased to be there.”

He catches my wrist before I can fuss with the other side and kisses the inside of it. “That part should be manageable.”

It takes less persuasion than I’ve prepared for.

Soon we’re leaving the house with a basket between us and a folded blanket tucked under Max’s arm. He insists on carrying both, which leaves me free to steal a piece of bread from beneath the cloth covering our lunch.

“That’s supposed to last until we get there.” He shifts the basket out of reach, watching me eat it.

“Then walk faster.” I brush a crumb from my lip. “Your wife is wasting away.”

“My wife had most of my breakfast.” He starts up the gentle slope toward the old olive tree overlooking the lower lawn, then turns to walk backward, grinning at me. “Try to keep up with me, princess.”

I stop chewing.

Oh, he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“You’re very confident for a man with your history.” I follow him up the slope, refusing to give him the satisfaction of hurrying. “Shall I remind you how that went?”

“After lunch.” He turns before he can trip over a root, which is unfortunate. I would have enjoyed that. “I prefer being humiliated on a full stomach.”

Under the tree, he sets down the basket and shakes out the blanket. I take the opposite corners before the breeze can fold it back over his head, and together we settle it across the grass, half in the shade.

“There.” I lower myself onto it and slip off my shoes. The house is visible beyond the lawn, close enough that this shouldn’t feel like an escape, but it does. “Was that so difficult?”

“Ask me when I have to get up.” Max sits beside me, stretching his legs out with a sigh that suggests I’ve made him climb a mountain.

I open the basket and find bread, cheese, tomatoes, and a small dish of cherries tucked beside the napkins. He reaches for one, but I move the dish into my lap.

“Those are mine.” I pull a cherry free by its stem and hold it just beyond his fingers.

“I carried them.”

“And I provided the inspiration.” I offer him one at last, feeling absurdly generous when he accepts it from my hand. “We both contributed.”