Page 110 of Nutmeg + Mistletoe
I nod. “Fine.”
“What about touching?” he asks, and it’s not innocent. “How much?”
“Holding hands. That’s it.”
He smiles, and it’s sexy. I mean, infuriating. “And how do we know it’ll look real if we don’t practice?”
“Declan—”
But he silences me the way he always does—like restraint has never been in his vocabulary. His mouth crushes mine, and there’s no slow build, no prelude. Just fire. Just him. His tongue claimingspace like he’s leaving something behind, like this kiss is a transaction and I’m now in debt.
This man kisses in Italian.
And if memory serves me right, he fucks in Italian too.
And I think I miss him.
He pulls back just enough to touch his forehead to mine, breath ragged. “Perché mi combatti così, Americana?”
My voice is barely a whisper. “What does that mean?”
He exhales, like I’ve wounded him. “Why do you fight me so, Americana? Why do you fight this,” he pants, pointing between us. “When your body’s begging for it? For me?”
And as he stares into my eyes, quiet, steady, like he already knows how this ends, I can barely remember the reason why myself. Why I’m fighting this. Why I thought rules would protect me from him. From us. From this pull I can’t explain.
This obsession. This growing addiction that is becoming my husband.
Chapter thirty-three
Dress-Up & Defiance
Marlow
Growing up, no matter how many board meetings were on the calendar or how many last-minute flights he had to catch, my dad always showed up for fall. Hayrides, pumpkin patches, haunted houses that were one electrical spark away from a lawsuit—he was there. Every time.
Halloween was my mom’s favorite season, and after she passed, he made it his personal mission to make it mine too. He carved pumpkins like a surgeon, made the best damn cider you’ve ever tasted, and once sewed an entire unicorn costume by hand because I saw one in a catalog and casually mentioned I liked it. Sure, he was likely over-compensating for missing so much throughout the rest of the year. And the costume was hideous. But he was also justthatdad whenever he had the opportunity to be. The one who did too much, in the best possible way.
So yeah, dressing up for Halloween has always been kind of my thing. I never missed a chance to go full fantasy—fairy wings, pirate boots, glitter in places it had no business being. It was the one night a year where reality didn’t matter. I could be anything, anyone. But this year hits different. This year I wanted to be different.
I didn’t want to be cute. Didn’t want to be whimsical or clever. I wanted to behot. Unapologetically, skin-tight, jaw-droppingly hot. Just one moment to feel like I still own my own body, my own choices, my own damn narrative without feeling like I’m performing for the cameras. To remind myself that I can still walk into a room and set it on fire, just because I feel like it.
Because work is becoming the thing Daddy warned me about—a definition more than a destiny—and Declan’s got me twisted up in ways I hate admitting. The way his tattoos snake down his arms and across his chest like a treasure map straight to my pleasure. The way he watches me—quiet, steady, always reading the room and adjusting without ever asking for credit. He takes care of me when I’m not looking. Even when he’s not sure I’ll stay. And that right there is what scares me.
I can’t tell if he’s trying to win my heart or if he’s just trying towin. Like there’s a game clock ticking in his head and he’s betting on how long it’ll take before I cave. Or maybe he really just wants the money. And because I don’t know which it is—because I’ve never been in anything that felt this confusing—Ido what I do best. I push. I keep him at arm’s length. I make it hard. And it’s getting to him.
It’s getting to me, too. But I’m doing my best to ignore it.
Coincidentally, it’s also the day I’m scheduled to be at his house, and I decided to get ready for the party here. Declan is brooding. The TV is on, lights dim, one arm slung over the back of the couch while old match footage flickers on screen. Shirtless, tattoos on full display, muscles flexed in all the wrong ways. He’s a walking distraction, and I’m dangerously close to throwing away my dignity just to climb into his lap. If he wasn’t everything I know I shouldn’t want.
My maddeningly irresistible husband is getting harder to ignore with every breath I take near him.
I pause in the hallway, adjusting the neckline of my costume. It’s black leather, skin tight, strategically scandalous and everything I desired to accomplish tonight with this ensemble.
I watch my husband for a beat. “Aren’t you going to the party?” I ask, even though I probably should know. But I’ve been toggling between this house and my apartment like a product of divorce with joint custody, so we haven’t exactly had a heart-to-heart about our Halloween plans.
He doesn’t look away from the tv. “Not going.”
Okay. The brooding fütbol player was cute for a minute but now he’s starting to piss me off.
