Page 122 of The Reason I Married Him
“Dear God, you humped a pillow.”
“No,” he says in an annoyed tone, which makes me laugh. “But it reminded me of this hotel I once stayed in that had feather-down pillows. I was so insulted that they’d use such a thing—because you don’t even want to know the horror that goes into anything that’s feather-down—that I charged right to the manager’s office of the hotel.”
“And let me guess, you had sex with her.”
“Uh, no,” he says. “I did not because I didn’t make it to her office, not when I slipped on a wet floor, flew up in the air, and landed on my back, throwing out the entire thing. And before you mention anything about me being in my mid-thirties and having old man back issues, this was mid-twenties for me.”
“I was still in high school.”
“Jesus,” he mutters. “Not something to mention.” I laugh, and he continues. “Anyway, they called the ambulance, even though I told them that wasn’t necessary, and I was taken to the hospital and put on some painkillers. Well, that night, my nurse came in . . .”
“Oh my God, did you have sex with your nurse?”
“No,” he says.
“Then my God, Wyatt, where is this story going?”
“You asked for the rabbit trail, and I’m giving it to you.” He clears his throat. “The nurse was wearing a carrot pin on her scrubs, which took me back to a moment when I was twenty-one and at a Halloween party. I was dressed as a stoplight, and there was a woman dressed up as a naughty carrot. Her tits were propped up to her chin, and she was?—”
“So you did it with a carrot?”
“No.” He shakes his head. “She was too drunk, but her friend, who was dressed like a mallard, she and I did it in the bathroom that night.”
I lift from where I’m resting on his chest and look him in the eyes. “Why didn’t the actual mailbox mallard remind you of the slutty mallard at the Halloween party?”
“Because,” he says so casually. “That’s not how author brains work.”
And then he pulls me back to his chest as if he didn’t just expose himself as one of the weirdest humans I’ve ever met.
After a few seconds, I say, “What am I getting myself into?”
“A world of fun, babe. That’s what you’re getting yourself into.”
Wyatt popsout of the bathroom, freshly showered and ready for bed. He let me take a shower first, which was nice, and while I was drying off, I heard him tapping away on his computer. I asked him if he came up with a new idea or if he was still reminiscing about the mailbox mallard, but he told me he was just answering some emails from his agent. He also said he’d include his rabbit trail in his next book.
“Surprised you’re still awake,” he says as he checks the lock on the door—his paranoia makes me slightly intrigued because there’s either a backstory behind that or all his research for his books has turned him into a safety officer. When he’s satisfied with everything, he slips into bed and turns toward me. “I thought you’d be passed out by now.”
“Why would you think that?” I ask.
“Avoidance of the night we shared,” he says.
“That doesn’t sound like me.” He lifts one brow, and that’s all it takes to make me smile. “Fine, maybe that is me.”
“So what changed?” he asks.
“Nothing.” I shrug. “Guess I just didn’t think about it.”
“Or you were waiting up for me because you had so much fun tonight that you wanted to tell me in person before I drifted off to sleep.”
“That’s not it,” I answer.
“Keep telling yourself that.” He brushes a stray hair behind my ear, his fingers lightly caressing my cheek in the process. It makes me wonder what it would be like if this man was actually my real-life husband. Would he act the same way? Would he be as attentive, or is he doing all of this just for show to keep me happy until I say I do?
Even if he was, I can’t blame him. There’s a lot on the line for both of us.
“I was thinking about something tonight,” he says.
“Oh?” I ask.
