Page 93 of Bronson

Customers seem to like me. We’re now getting a much younger, even wealthier crowd since I’ve taken over the buying. My new customers think nothing of dropping ten grand on a gift. I just help them choose which one.

Every item that lines my closet now belongs to me legally.

As for everything I stole before Bronson came into my life, I handled it myself. We returned every piece we could trace. For anything that could not be returned, I calculated the full retail value and repaid it from my earnings.

Not Bronson’s money. Mine.

It took time. There were months when half my paycheck disappeared before I could spend it on a single beautiful thing. I hated that. I also knew it was fair.

Bronson matched the final amount and donated it to Our Home, but he never paid my debt for me. He understood that I needed to do that myself.

Returning the money did not erase what I had done. It was not supposed to.

It was simply the first time I understood that remorse is not merely feeling bad. It is doing what you can to make something right.

Being a married woman is nothing like I’d dreamed it would be. Probably because the man of my dreams is so different than any man I’ve ever met.

To be a Bachman… it’s thrilling.

And at times, infuriating. Every once in a while, my ugly temper will rear its head. And you know exactly where that lands me.

Not that I don’t love it.

Except when I don’t.

For example, right this minute.

Bronson has gotten it into his mind that it’s not safe for me to be at the jewelers alone after hours. But I’m a working woman. Just like him, I need time after the hectic day has died down to wrap up loose ends. And forgive me, but I do get sucked into the buying end of things. There are just so many gorgeous lines of jewelry to sort through.

Do I forget to lock the doors some nights?

Sure.

Am I alone, working in the back office some nights?

Of course.

I don’t understand what the big deal is. Everyone respects the Bachman name. No one would dare to break in.

Except for my husband.

Bronson comes bursting through the doors at seven oh eight p.m., demanding, “What the hell are you thinking, working after hours with the door unlocked and the alarm not set?”

“Um. I’m working.”

“And you can’t work with the door locked and the alarm on?” He stands before me, fuming. I swear if clouds of smoke could float out of his ears, they would.

“I’m working,” I say. Bronson has a terrible habit of interrupting me when I’m knee deep in jewel catalogues.

“Working on finding your way to a smacked bottom.”

I shut the glossy book with a snap. “I told you, I’m fine here. I was just about to set the alarm⁠—”

“Do not lie to me, young lady. You’ll find yourself with a sore bottom, inside and out.”

I gulp. Bronson has recently introduced me to a new punishment plug. It’s bigger than the one he put in my bottom in the office that day before we were dating. He likes to pop it into my bottom before a spanking. I hate that thing. And it’s a pretty little thing too. Platinum with a swirly engraved capital ‘B’ on it. Shame it’s so beautiful and for such a nasty purpose.

My ass clenches just thinking about it. Time to play nice. “I’m sorry, sweetie. You’re right. I’ll just lock up and we’ll be out of here.” I stand from my seat, tidying up and slipping the catalogue back into the stack.