42. Dean
Dean
I did not know a house could feel this different with one woman inside it. Same walls. Same staircase. Same bedroom I walked through yesterday with Coleman talking about square footage and resale value and whether I wanted the security company transferred today or tomorrow.
Now? Now it feels alive. Now it feels like something built to hold us.
I’m leaning against the bedroom doorway pretending to give Maddie space to get ready when in reality I have not been able to take my eyes off her for the last twenty minutes.
She moves around our room—our room, in our house, the house I share with my wife—and every time that word circles through my head I have to fight a grin like some lovesick idiot.
Wife. Mine. Home.
Those three words have apparently rewired my entire brain.
She stands in front of the mirror pinning one side of her hair back, then turns toward the bed to dig through the bag we dragged over from her apartment.
My eyes follow every movement.
The black dress hugging her waist. The bare line of her shoulders. The little crease between her brows while she decides between earrings like this is a normal night and not the night she is standing in our bedroom getting ready for her first event as Mrs. Dean Kincade.
My chest feels too tight. Like there is physically not enough room inside it for what I am feeling.
She glances up and catches me staring.
A smile tugs at her lips. “What?”
I push off the frame and walk into the room slowly. “Nothing.”
She snorts. “That is the face of definitely something.”
I stop behind her and meet her eyes in the mirror.
For a second I just look. At the woman standing in front of me.
At the way she fits in this space like she was always supposed to be here.
At the wedding band now back on her finger because there is no way in hell I let her leave this house without it again.
Then I slide my hands around her waist and press my mouth to the side of her neck.
“You’re in my house.”
She laughs softly. “Our house.”
I kiss just below her ear. “My wife is in my house.”
That makes her shoulders shake. “You are dangerously close to sounding like a caveman. Plus isn't it my house since it was a gift?”
I hum against her skin. “Mm. Might drag you back to bed by your hair.”
She turns in my arms, smiling up at me. “You would make us late.”
I look down at her. At the ring. At the dress. At the flushed happiness in her cheeks. And I am struck all over again by the same thought that has been punching me in the ribs since Vegas—how the hell did I get this lucky?
My thumb brushes over her jaw.
“You look beautiful.”
Her expression softens instantly. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I lean down and kiss her once, slow enough to make her sigh. “Like chest-hurting beautiful.”
She smiles against my mouth. “Well, Husband, you clean up pretty nice yourself.”
I grin. “I know.”
She rolls her eyes and goes back to grabbing her clutch before I can start anything that ends with us missing the fundraiser entirely.
A few minutes later we are heading downstairs, and I catch myself watching her walk through the foyer carrying her heels in one hand while she laughs about forgetting lipstick.
This. This domestic little nothing. This is somehow more intimate than half the nights we spent tangled in hotel sheets.
I open the front door for her. Walk her down the porch steps. Open the truck door.
She gives me an amused look. "You know I can get in by myself.”
I lean one forearm on the top of the door and look at her. "I know.”
She smiles because she knows arguing is useless and climbs inside.
And because I am apparently incapable of not taking care of her in every possible way now, I lean in after her, reach across her body, and click the seatbelt into place.
Her perfume hits me. Soft and warm and Maddie.
I linger a second longer than necessary.
Her fingers curl lightly around my wrist. “You still buckle me in like I’m five.”
I brush my mouth over hers. “No,” I murmur. “I buckle you in like you’re my wife.”
Her breath catches. And judging by the smile she gives me when I pull back—I’m going to be using that line for the rest of my life.
I hate fundraisers.
I know that makes me sound like an asshole considering this one raises millions for good causes and half the city’s wealthy elite are here throwing money around for charity, but I still hate them.
Because the second we walked in, Maddie got pulled one way by Addy and Penelope and some of the other wives and girlfriends, while I got dragged another by sponsors, donors, former players, and every businessman in a five-hundred-dollar suit who wants ten minutes with the Mustangs’ head coach.
So now I’m separated from my wife. My wife. Still not over saying that.
I nod through conversations I barely hear, shake too many hands, pose for a photo by a silent auction table, and spend the entire time scanning the ballroom every chance I get for one glimpse of blonde hair.
Nothing. I know she’s safe. Know she’s somewhere with the WAGs. That thought almost makes me laugh. Maddie would absolutely hate being called a WAG.
I am one hundred percent using that on her later.
A donor from the children’s hockey camp catches me near the hall and starts talking budget numbers for this summer’s clinic. I listen, nodding in the right places because it’s a cause I actually care about. The camp gives kids opportunities most of them would never have otherwise.
With Paxton called up now, I make a mental note to ask Jake if he wants to help me take on a bigger role there this year.
Maybe we can—My wife’s voice cuts down the hallway. I smile automatically. Then the smile drops. Because something in it is off. She doesn’t sound scared. But she sure as hell doesn’t sound happy.
I excuse myself mid-conversation and head toward the side corridor where the voices are coming from.
Addy and Maddie are standing near one of the donor display tables. They’re facing me. But someone is standing with their back to me between us. Too close. My jaw tightens instantly.
I pick up my pace. Then the woman turns. And every muscle in my body goes rigid.
Camille.
You have got to be fucking kidding me.
I haven’t seen her since the day I told her to get the hell out of my office months ago. Haven’t spoken to her. Haven’t thought about her outside of occasional relief that she finally took the hint.
Apparently the hint was not, in fact, taken.
She spots me and lights up like Christmas morning.
“Dean, dear!” she chirps, stepping toward me in some skin-tight red dress that suddenly feels visually offensive. “There you are. I’ve missed you.”
She reaches for my arm. I shift my body away before she can touch me. Her hand catches air.
Camille blinks but keeps smiling like this is all perfectly normal.
“I was asking Madison here where you were,” she says, with a dismissive little wave in Maddie’s direction. “I thought you would have picked me up like normal, but I figured meeting here would be best.”
My eye twitches. Picked her up like normal?
What in the delusional hell—
“I know I’ve been gone the last few months and haven’t been able to reach out—”
Gone. As if she took a vacation. Not as if I told her to leave and never come back. She just keeps talking. Talking like we are still together. Talking like I didn’t end whatever fantasy relationship she built in her own head.
“But of course Madison didn’t know where you were.” Camille gives Maddie a once-over dripping in condescension. “Doesn’t surprise me, really. How can I expect someone that just takes videos to know anything.”
Everything in me goes black.
I hear Addy say, “Excuse me, you bitch—”
But I’m already moving. I step directly between Camille and Maddie so fast Camille stumbles back half a step in surprise.
My shoulders block Maddie completely. My voice comes out low. Lethal.
“No one talks to my wife like that.”
Silence. Camille stares at the side of my face. Then blinks.
“Your… wife?”
I turn my head just enough to look at her. There is not one ounce of warmth left in me.
“Yes.”
She opens her mouth.
I cut her off before she can start whatever dramatic nonsense she has queued up.
“You need to leave.”
“Dean, I think there’s been some misunder—”
“No.” My tone sharpens enough that she physically flinches. “There is no misunderstanding. There has never been anything between us worth misunderstanding.”
Her face drains. Good.
“You do not speak to my wife.” I take one small step toward her. “You do not speak to any member of my staff. And you sure as hell do not walk into my events acting like I owe you my time.”
Camille looks around like maybe someone will rescue her. No one does. Addy looks ready to swing. Maddie is quiet behind me.
I point toward the ballroom entrance. “Leave.”
She hesitates. I don’t. I just stare until humiliation finally wins and she turns on her heel and stalks off down the hallway.
The second she disappears, all the anger drains enough for me to turn.
I spin back toward Maddie instantly, hands already reaching for her shoulders. “Baby, are you—”
I stop. Because my wife— my ridiculous wife—is smiling. Not upset. Not shaken. Smiling like she just watched her favorite movie scene play out in real life. I blink. She bites her lip.
Then steps into me. “I love when you get protective husband.”
I stare at her for one beat. Then bark out a laugh so loud Addy snorts beside us.
Yeah. Definitely marrying her was the right call.