Page 52 of Bridesmaid By Chance
He leads me to the valet, where he hands the man working the podium our ticket. As we wait, Hudson lowers his hand from my back, and I miss the feel of him—that is until he reaches down and takes my hand in his. My eyes flit between the connection and back up at him.
“What are you doing?”
“Holding my wife’s hand,” he says as he looks straight ahead, his posture tall, not an ounce of uncertainty to be found.
“I see that, but why?”
His eyes meet mine and he says, “You’re my wife, are you not?”
“I am.”
“Then that means I hold your hand.”
“Uh-huh, yup, I understand that, but what I don’t understand is?—”
He leans close to my ear, his lips nearly caressing my skin. “We’re going to be in London together, married, in front of people that matter. Consider this practice.”
“Right,” I say as he moves away and I’m able to catch my breath. So he’s good with this kind of show of being married but not talking. “Got it.”
When his car pulls up in front of us, he opens the door for me and helps me in before tipping the valet and joining me. He pulls out onto the road and holds the steering wheel with one hand while he slips his other hand so casually onto my thigh that, to him, it seems like second nature.
To me, umm…not so much.
Every muscle inside me starts twitching from the feel of his warmpalm on my thigh. My stomach twirls and somersaults. My inner thighs tremble. And for a brief second, I consider lifting my long-ass dress up and letting him actually touch my skin.
While we drive through the streets of San Francisco, the dark night lit up by streetlamps, I have a million questions I want to ask him. So many about him, about his intentions, if he’s ever thought about me the way I’ve thought about him, but I hold back because I know he won’t answer them. Like I said, he’s not the same man he once was. He’s different.
He’s subdued.
Focused.
Uninterested in conversation.
So instead, I stare out the window while he holds on to me, and I revel in the moment.
“You know, usually your assistant does tasks for you, but it seems as though you have your driver do things for you now,” I say as I observe every last article of clothing of mine hung or folded in Hudson’s closet.
“Corinne, my housekeeper, put away your clothes.”
I open a drawer where I see my underwear and bras lined up neatly. Well, thank God for Corinne, because here I thought Bart was folding my thongs. Not sure I’d be able to look him in the eye.
I move past my pajamas and snag one of Hudson’s shirts again because they smell amazing and are comfortable. Teeth already brushed, I go to the bathroom and change out of the long dress I don’t ever plan on wearing again. I deposit my dirty clothes in the hamper and then walk into the bedroom, where I see Hudson, shirtless and looking through his phone while lying in bed.
The man never stops.
I move to my side of the bed and then stop short when I see my vibrator casually placed on my nightstand. Nothing discreet about it.
Yup, thank God Corinne unpacked.
I pick it up and open the nightstand drawer where I place it, something Corinne could have done, but you know, we’re not going to be mad at her; she might have been worried that I might not know where she put it.
When I slip under the covers, Hudson sets his phone down on his charger and adjusts his pillow. “Don’t use that when I’m around.”
“Excuse me?” I ask, turning toward him.
“Your vibrator—don’t use it when I’m around.”
“Uh…do you really think I’m about to just pull it out and get myself off while I’m next to you in bed?”
