24. Shelby #2
“You’re being dramatic,” Beau says, walking over and putting his hand inside. “It’s fine.”
“Fine? Fine? In what world is that fine?”
“The world where I’d like to not leave the shower with third-degree burns.”
I want to put my hands on my hips, but then I remember if I do that, the towel will fall.
Oh! Wait… If I show him my boobs, will I get hot water?
It’s a possibly reasonable maneuver, but I don’t know if I want to play that hand not even twenty-four hours into this.
No, that feels like a card to save for a special occasion.
“Please, Beau,” I say, opting for the nice route. “I really like my hot showers, and this is…it’s freezing.”
I went with the nice tone because I didn’t think he’d expect it, and it would enhance my chances of getting the desired reaction. Foolish of me to think he didn’t have a trick of his own up his sleeve.
“I seem to remember you not having a problem with the water temperature in Las Vegas,” he says, stepping into my space. “Or did the steam we were making block out the water temperature?”
How dare this man use my own orgasms against me. “Those don’t count because that’s not going to happen here.”
“Exactly,” he says, stepping so close to me that the fabric of my towel is brushing against his chest. “If I have to take cold showers every day, why don’t you?”
I’m just about to play the boob card, when another idea hits me. “Do you ever want those cold showers to end?”
Beau might put on this cocky-guy persona, but at the end of the day, he’s a man with a penis, and I’m a woman in a towel, who’s slowly brushing her fingertips up his sternum. And that combination will never not work in the female’s favor.
“You know that answer.”
I rise up on my tiptoes, dropping my voice to a whisper for effect. “Then if you ever want to see what’s under this towel again, you’re going to turn up the hot water.”
I feel his heart start to beat faster and, because of where I’ve positioned myself, his dick coming alive.
“You play dirty, wife.”
I turn and give him a light kiss on the cheek. “I play to win, husband.”
With a groan that comes from deep in his throat, Beau turns on his heel and walks out of the bathroom, mumbling something about blue balls and insufferable women.
“That was too easy,” I say, stepping into the shower, and letting the suddenly hot water run over my body.
Me
I’m going to kill your brother.
Gabi
Glad to see nothing has changed after you exchanged “I dos.”
This isn’t a laughing matter. I can’t find anything in his fucking monstrosity of a house.
Have you, I don’t know, considered asking him?
I shouldn’t have to ask the homeowner where the coffee maker is.
Oh, he doesn’t drink coffee. He probably doesn’t have one.
Oh, now you’re going to tell me I’m living with a psychopath?
He’s not anti caffeine. He’s just more of an energy drink guy.
Great. I’m married to a bro who probably has definitive rankings of the best Monster flavors.
He prefers Red Bull.
Again, your sarcasm is not welcome.
Just trying to help you navigate these first few days of wedded bliss.
I’d be more blissful if I knew I had to bring my coffee maker over from my house.
Make him go get it. Least he can do.
Now you’re sounding like the Gabi I know and love.
If this is the kind of refereeing I have to do for the two of you, I’m more than happy.
Oh! I meant to ask you. Does your brother have a sourdough starter?
What? Why the hell would my brother have a sourdough starter?
I don’t know what else it could be. It was on the counter yesterday. It’s gone today. But I swear it was a mason jar with a rubber band around it and a label calling it “Betty.”
Have you not been sleeping well? I think you’re delirious.
Maybe I am. I did marry your brother, so clearly I’m not right in the head.
I’m going to stay away from that one…
“I was wondering when I’d get this view.”
I look up to see Beau walking into his living room, looking casual and comfortable in a pair of jeans and a fitted Henley. It’s March in Nashville, so the spring weather is definitely here during the day, but it’s still getting cool at night.
“What view is that?”
“The one of you laying around the house, a book in your hand.”
I brace myself for whatever dig he’s about to send me. “Am I not allowed to read?”
“Why would you say that?” Beau asks as he sits on the other end of the couch I’m laying on. “I just wondered what the first book I’d catch you reading is?”
I flip it over to him, showing the cover. “I’m glad you asked. It’s about a trio of women who discover they’re all married to the same man and are now plotting how to murder him and get away with it.”
“Oh, so you’re taking notes,” he teases, grabbing the remote from the coffee table and flipping on his ridiculously large television. “What should I be aware of?”
“That depends,” I say, sliding a bookmark in to protect my spot. Because dogears are for maniacs. “Do you have two other wives I’m not aware of?”
“I don’t even have two exes for you to be aware of,” he jokes as he flips the channel to ESPN.
“What about Courtney?”
“Was nothing more than a hookup in Vegas,” he says. “And I promise, nothing happened this time.”
He didn’t have to tell me that, but I appreciate the words.
“At least she stays in Vegas,” Beau adds. “Unlike my wife’s ex, who I have to see next week.”
My stomach sinks at the thought of Beau seeing Michael. “I haven’t been online. Has he written more?”
“Not much,” Beau says with a shrug. “He’s done a few follow-ups, but none of it is new information.
He’s just regurgitating a bunch of shit to try and get clicks.
But Kat and Grayson were right. The fact that we’ve issued a statement asking others to respect our privacy as we navigate this exciting time together, or whatever the hell it said, is working. Things are dying down.”
“That’s until we head back out next week,” I say. “We’re both going to be playing. We’re going to get the questions.”
“And we’re going to answer them just like Kat and Grayson have coached us,” Beau says. “If Michael asks anything inappropriate, I’m going to use my powers for good and get him blacklisted from every tournament in the country.”
I raise a questioning eyebrow. “You think you can do that?”
Beau sends me a wink. “Does he have a one-million-plus viewing audience and the capabilities of making a video go viral in a nano second? It would take one segment of a Back Nine episode to bury him if I wanted to.”
While that does sound tempting, it also feels a little over the top. “Let’s just wait and see how he is next week. Then we’ll plot his demise.”
“Wise words from the ex-lover,” he says.