Page 41 of Fall For Me
I tilt my head, smirking. “Do you want that in writing?”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“Really? I was ready to pinky swear on it.” I hold up my little finger, wiggling it. “But I’m honored by the vote of confidence. I’m glad our marriage is already building on such solid trust.”
She scoffs. “You’d better keep your fingers to yourself.”
I raise both hands in surrender. “I’ll be nothing but a true gentleman.”
Peyton shakes her head as she scoops up her box again. “Now, if we’re done negotiating the terms of my incarceration, I’m going to get changed. As grateful as I am for your personal shopping services, this bikini is chafing.”
She turns on her heel and marches toward the hallway, then freezes. She looks left and right, and her shoulders hunch just before she spins back to face me, her expression caught somewhere between annoyance and embarrassment.
“Where’s the bathroom?”
“Second door on the right, down the hall.” I point. “But remember to bring your toothbrush upstairs, the bedroom is the first door on the left.”
“Right.”
She stomps off down the hallway, the box bouncing against her hip with each aggressive step, her behind swaying indignantly.
Yeah, fighting with her isn’t exhausting; it’s fueling me. It’s like redlining the Ducati on a wet road—stupid, dangerous, exhilarating, and demanding every ounce of my attention.
16
PEYTON
I’ve been locked in the bathroom for an eternity. Twenty minutes, maybe more. I’ve brushed my teeth. I’ve stared at my pores in the magnifying mirror. And I’ve practiced my “everything is fine” smile until the corners of my mouth started to twitch.
But hiding in the half bath won’t save me from what comes next: sharing a bed with my husband.
I splash cold water on my face, dry off on the extra-fluffy towel, and stare at my reflection. The person staring back is someone who made a series of questionable decisions and is now about to have to lie in the bed she made, literally.
I dig through the box of PJs, shoving past the clingy silk Matt liked and the lacy stuff I bought thinking I’d be honeymooning, until I hit the bottom where I find a pair of oversized red-and-black plaid flannel pajamas. They are comfortable, warm, and as sexy as a tax audit.
I change, trading the cursed bikini for proper underwear and buttoning up the shirt to my throat.
I grab my phone and sit on the closed toilet. I should call Emma. But the thought of rehashing tonight—the food,the interrogation, all his touches, and now the bed situation—is insurmountable. She’d add more questions that I don’t know how to answer.
I chicken out and type a quick text instead.
Peyton
Meeting the parents went okay, but I’m exhausted. Talk tomorrow?
Emma
Okay? That tells me nothing. Let’s FaceTime when you’re in bed. I won’t keep you up
Peyton
Long story, but I can’t bring the phone into our room. Full debrief tomorrow, I promise
I lock the screen. Her reply comes up as a preview banner.
Emma
OUR?! room
