Down and Dirty (Hot Jocks #5)(20)

“Take a deep breath in, and now exhale all of your distractions and anxieties,” the instructor guides us, and I do as I’m told.

I’m 90 percent sure the woman is reading my mind. That or the fact that I’m toppling out of half-moon pose is giving me away.

Focus, Aubree. Only fifteen minutes of class left to go.

Despite my chronically wandering mind, I make it through class and actually manage to feel a little more relaxed at the end. But when I grab my purse out of the cubby and see I have a text from Landon, I’m right back where I started. Especially because this isn’t just a hey, how are you kind of text. It’s a text asking me to wear my ring when I come over today.

My mouth turns dry as I stare down at my phone, then at my naked left hand. I haven’t taken the ring out of the jewelry box since I put it there Monday morning.

At first, I told myself I’d just take it off for work to keep the gossip to a minimum, but every time I thought about putting it back on, it just felt wrong. But he must have noticed that I wasn’t wearing it when we met up the other night, and now I feel like the jerk of the century. Not only did I flee when I found out my husband was a virgin, but now I’m not wearing the obscenely expensive ring he bought me. I’m certainly not going to be winning any Wife of the Year awards anytime soon.

As I walk through the parking lot to my car, I formulate an apology text.

I’m sorry I haven’t been wearing it. I love the ring, I just need time.

Once I hit SEND, the three bubbles pop up almost instantly as he texts me back.

I know, that’s fine. But I have someone from my insurance company coming by to do an appraisal so we can get a policy on it, so I need you to bring it.

Oh, of course! I reply, feeling relieved, but also a little foolish. Of course he wants to insure it. It’s worth a lot of money.

After a shower, I blow-dry my hair, swipe on a few coats of mascara, and tug on jeans and an emerald-green top that’s as comfy as it is cute. Then I’m back in my car, cruising toward Landon’s apartment downtown. He buzzes me up, and while I’m still in the elevator, my phone dings with a text from him.

Door is unlocked. Walk right on in, wifey.

I roll my eyes at the wifey part but follow instructions, turning the doorknob of his top-floor apartment extra slowly, just in case I got the apartment number wrong. When I spot a duffel by the door with the Ice Hawks logo and a big number 94 printed on the side, I swing the door all the way open and step inside.

“Knock, knock,” I call out as I step through the large open foyer and admire his state-of-the-art kitchen. It’s a nice apartment, although he clearly hasn’t lived here long. The only non-necessity in the living room is the enormous flat-screen TV mounted on the wall. Although, based on the tangle of cords from various video-game consoles, Landon might consider that more of a necessity than a luxury.

“Be there in a sec,” his deep voice calls from somewhere inside the apartment.

I turn to find Landon coming down the hallway, dressed in a pair of dark well-fitting jeans and a black T-shirt that stretches distractingly across his muscular chest. My stomach does a little flip when his eyes meet mine. They’re a brilliant shade of blue, like the Puget Sound at sundown.

“Thanks for coming.” His lips twitch at the sight of me in his apartment.

There’s no denying it. He’s cute. Polite. Kind eyes. Midwestern good-boy vibes. Charming, even when he doesn’t mean to be. It could mess with a girl.

Good thing I’m not a girl anymore. Haven’t been for a long time. But when will I start feeling like a full-fledged adult, capable of making adult decisions, like—oh, I don’t know—insisting on an annulment of this crazy union? Because so far, I don’t seem capable.

And I’m here, on a date, with my totally hunky husband.

“Something to drink?” he asks, breaking the drawn-out silence between us.

“Sure.” I shrug and watch Landon’s retreating form as he heads for the kitchen.

“This is so nice,” I say, referring to both the apartment and the view of his perfectly firm hockey player butt.

Crossing the room, I take a seat on the tan couch, one of the few pieces of furniture in the space. Moments later, Landon joins me, handing me a can of ginger ale.

“Do you just keep these around?” I ask, accepting the chilled drink from him and tugging at the pop tab until it snaps open.

“No, I picked up some just in case last night. You were drinking it in the honeymoon suite, so I figured you liked it.”

I suppress a smirk. “I was drinking ginger ale in Vegas because I was hung over, not because it’s my all-time favorite drink.” When I notice the disappointment in his eyes, I quickly add, “But I was actually in the mood for ginger ale today, so thank you,” which cheers him up enough to put the light back in his bright blue eyes.

It really was sweet for him to remember my beverage choice. No one has cared enough to notice the tiniest details about me in a long time.

A knock at the door brings Landon to his feet again. “That must be the appraiser.”

He grabs a stack of papers off the coffee table, then heads for the door, welcoming in a slim woman with jet-black hair that matches her black pantsuit and pumps. She’s striking, and the way she smiles at Landon makes me feel surprisingly defensive. Springing to my feet, I shake her hand and introduce myself.