Not So Nice Guy(61)

He leans down to kiss me, tells me to lie still, and then comes back a few seconds later with a damp towel to clean me up.

I smirk like a greedy little cat as he does the heavy lifting. Once I’m good as new, he helps me sit up and reaches down to fix my robe.

Then I remember where we are, how fancy this place is. I glance around and yup, there’s a minibar filled with delicate nuts and chocolate truffles. The walls are covered in an intricate gold-leafed design.

“Ian, how much do you think this entire bed costs? Frame and all?”

He laughs and shakes his head. “Why on earth are you thinking about that?”

“I’m wondering if we’d be able to afford to…”

“Buy it?”

He really has no idea what I’m hinting at.

“No, no—to replace it if we break it.”

His brows ratchet up to his hairline and then there’s a knock on the door. “Room service.”

YES. My milkshake! I shove Ian out of the way and run for the door. “Oh, and PS, I’m not sharing my dessert.”

“Even with your husband?” he asks, dipping into the bathroom to turn on the shower.

HUSBAND! My heart skips a beat. My stomach, however, does not.

“Cute.” I smile. “But no.”





23





S A M



Even though I have a few months left on my apartment lease, I move in with Ian that Sunday after we check out of the hotel. We left a large tip for the cleaning staff, but I still feel bad. For 48 hours, we consummated our marriage in that room. If there was a surface on which you can have sex, my butt was on it. Sorry, next occupants.

On the way to my apartment, nerves creep in and I suggest we could keep living separately.

“Why?”

Because I’m a lot to handle and I don’t want you to regret marrying me.

That’s the truth, but I water it down. “Just…I don’t know. In case you want to slow things down.”

“I don’t.”

“In case you get sick of me.”

“I won’t.”

Alrighty then.

Moving doesn’t take us long. Most everything I own, Ian has a better version of. My pots and pans are antiques, and not in a good way. My bed creaks and is too small to fit us both comfortably. My bathroom rug is new, but it’s pink and floral. Ian gives me the choice whether to take it or leave it, and I smile because deep down, I know he would let me put it in his bathroom, but I spare him.

I bring over my clothes and Ian allots me half the space in his closet and dresser.

“I really don’t need that much room.”

“Why?”

I don’t know exactly how to phrase it, but it feels like I’m coming over for an extended sleepover. I want to make my presence here as negligible as possible, that way he won’t get annoyed and divorce me. I keep telling him I don’t need much space and I can just leave my toothbrush under the sink, but he puts it in the holder beside his and insists this is my house too now.

“Okay, then I want to sleep on the right side of the bed.”

He laughs and walks out of the room. “Not gonna happen.”

We’ll see about that.

I keep waiting for things to get more complicated, for us to hit the inevitable roadblock. For example, Ian could say, Oh, by the way, I secretly like to train birds and I keep a dozen foul-mouthed parrots in the garage. Or he could open the guest bedroom door to a mountain of trash and soiled adult diapers sliding out.

I check every nook and cranny of his house while I move in, looking for secret meth labs or size 11 stilettos, but even his guest room closet is organized and tidy. How disturbing! I would have preferred a dead body.

By Sunday night, when we’re sitting on his couch, spooning spaghetti into our mouths as fast as we can, I realize my fears might be unfounded.

“This is pretty great. We should have married each other ages ago,” I say, mouth full.

His eyes slice to me and I give him a big, toothy, spaghetti grin.

“Wow, gorgeous. I guess the honeymoon period really is over.”

I smirk and go back to my food. All that moving worked up my appetite.

“I plugged my phone charger into the outlet on the right side of the bed—y’know, because it’s my side.”

“Huh.” He nods. “My is a really strange way to pronounce your.”

“Come on! Don’t you want to be my protector, the one sleeping near the door in case someone breaks in to murder us?”

“Sure, but what if they come through the window?” he asks.

“Good point. I’ll take the left side, you take the axe-murderer window.”

I beam. Our first example of healthy conflict resolution as a married couple!

Normally, after dinner, I head back to my apartment to sleep. I’m so used to the ritual that I load my plate in the dishwasher and head straight for the door. I’m slipping my shoes on when Ian’s shadow falls over me.

“What are you doing?”

“Going ho—” I pause and laugh. “Oh my gosh!”

I turn off autopilot and kick off my shoes. Ian leans down and hooks his hands under my arms to lift me back to my feet.

“Leaving me already?” he teases. “We’ve only been married two days. Who is he, what’s his name?”