The Villain (Boston Belles, #2)(53)

He raised his palms in surrender.

“In my defense, you shouldn’t have trusted me. I can’t stay celibate for an afternoon, let alone an entire weekend. Everyone knows that.”

Sam flicked the back of Hunter’s head as he marched in my direction with his duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

I didn’t have to ask Hunter if he extended his invitation to his wife’s friends and our sister. These women were attached by the hip.

I was glad I didn’t care what Persephone thought about my performance in the sack because she was sure to share her final score with her BFFs.

Disinterested in coming face-to-face with my wife, I disposed my bag with Hunter and headed straight for the stables.

Checking on my horses, I fed and brushed their coats, then took them out, one by one, and cleaned their hooves. I sat on a barrel, my back facing the cabin, and got right down to it, still in my pea coat and eighteen karat F cuff links.

The air turned chilly by the time I heard the soft sound of hay crunching under boots.

Seconds later, she stood in front of me, next to the horse I was tending to, wearing a yellow dress that complemented her blond hair.

She looked like a swan with her long, delicate neck, and her head tilted down in elegant resignation.

My gaze hardened on the horse’s hoof.

“What’s his name?” She put a gentle hand on its back. The sweetness of her skin drifted into my nostrils, even under the overwhelming stench of the stables.

“Washington.” I raised the hoof pick, pointing it at the stalls behind him. “The rest of these rascals are Hamilton, Franklin, Adams, Jefferson, Madison, and Jay.”

“The Founding Fathers.” She sashayed to the barn, leaning against its wall with her hands tucked behind her back, watching me.

“Congratulations, you just passed a third-grade history exam.” I patted Washington’s thigh, signaling him to raise his other leg.

“Fifth,” she corrected with a grin. She was always happy to spar with me.

“I studied abroad,” I muttered. All my American history studies were given to me by tutors.

“I know,” she said softly. “Unlike our children, who will be staying right next to us until they are old enough to make up their minds about where they want to study.”

Uh-huh. You keep telling yourself that, sweetheart.

“Over your dead body, huh?” I groaned, digging deeper into the hoof with the pick.

“No,” she said calmly. “Over yours.”

My gaze shot up to hers, before returning to my work.

“That’s a lot of horses for one man,” my wife commented. “They’re beautiful, but some of them seem quite old. Gray-faced. Do you ride all of them?”

“Yes. They’re all in pristine condition.”

I dropped the pick, then grabbed the brush and moved it over Washington’s hoof.

“My father gifted me a horse for every year I finished top of my class, starting in middle school.”

She strode over to me.

“Isn’t being perfect all the time tiring?” Her hand was on my shoulder now. My muscles flexed. I focused on my task.

“What kind of question is that?”

“One I’d like an answer to.”

“Is being average boring?”

“No,” she replied, no trace of bitterness in her voice. “Then again, I don’t think I’m boring at all. I think I’m exactly who I was supposed to grow up to be, flaws and all. My parents always encouraged me to pursue my dream, and my dream was to raise children. Other people’s as well as my own.”

“Well, I enjoyed the opposite treatment. Everything about my arrival in this world was carefully planned. I came first, and I was male, which meant the expectations from me were complete and utter perfection in all aspects of my life. I knew I was going to carry the Fitzpatrick bloodline, take over Royal Pipelines, continue the lineage. My existence has always had a purpose, and nothing short of excellence will do.”

“You’re not perfect with me.”

“What you witnessed last week was lack of discretion.” I cracked my knuckles. “It wasn’t pretty.”

“No. But we’re all ugly in certain parts, and I’m still here.”

Because I paid for you.

“Come inside.” She ran a hand over my hair, like a mother would. If nothing else, she was going to be good for our children. Better than Jane ever was. “Food’s ready.”

I took her hand and dropped it gently.

“Not hungry.”

“Where are you going to sleep tonight?”

“The master bedroom.”

“Where am I going to sleep tonight?”

“Any of the six guest rooms. I own this place, so you get first choice.”

“I choose your bedroom,” she said without missing a beat.

“First choice other than my bed,” I clarified.

“Our friends will talk,” she warned.

“They have the irritating tendency to do that. Everyone knows ours is a sham marriage. No one’s going to buy your charade.” I stood, leading Washington back to his stall.

After locking the stall behind the horse, I turned around, watching her.

Despite what she thought, I was doing us both a favor. Entertaining her need to make this relationship feel normal would only cause disappointment in the long run. Even if I yielded to the temptation of sharing a bed and the occasional meal with her, she would eventually outgrow the detached arrangement I had to offer her and resent me even more.