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I might have made the horrible mistake of marrying him—sticking to my brain damage theory, thank you very much—but he’s not my keeper.
“The only reason I’m going with you is because I need answers,” I inform him as I stop in front of a Mercedes, which I assume is his, considering the short guy with sandy-blond hair who’s holding the door open.
Eli leans in behind me until his warm breaths send a hot flush against my ear. He’s so close, his height dwarfs mine and his scent shoots straight to my head worse than drugs.
“Whatever you say, Mrs. King,” he whispers in a deep tone.
I stiffen, my skin crawling with deep-seated annoyance and dangerous awareness.
Brilliant. That stupid part hasn’t changed despite the amnesia.
I slide into the back seat in a hopeless, slightly clunky attempt to escape his orbit. Eli places his hand on the roof inside the car to prevent me from hitting my head.
My mouth remains open in complete and utter surprise. Was he trying to be a protective gentleman just now or something equally ridiculous?
Someone call the imposter police and get this guy checked for authenticity.
On the outside, he looks quite the same, like a high-class replica, but something’s changed about this man.
Yes, he’s still the same crass Eli with enough unbothered audacity to give Satan a run for his money, but it’s different now.
Only, I can’t put my finger on it.
The blond guy, who I think I saw with Uncle Aiden in the past, closes my door with a respectful nod. Eli rounds the car, unbuttons his jacket, and sits beside me.
All of a sudden, the space is dwarfed by his titanic presence and I have to remind myself to breathe. Obviously, I’m shit out of luck, because I only manage to breathe him in with every inhale and fail to expel him with my exhales.
He smells like forbidden temptation and impending disaster.
Divine but so utterly wrong.
Sharing a space with him is entirely not in my best interest and could be considered a major test of my resolve, but I have to put up with it if I plan to uncover the truth behind whatever fuckery happened to me two years ago.
I refuse to believe I married him of my own accord but then, illogically, kept my closest people out of the loop.
There’s no way in hell I wouldn’t have told Cecy. Hell, I’ve always been so descriptive about everything, and she knows more about me than Mama or Ari. She’s my person. My confidante.
If I didn’t tell her why I insisted on marrying this glamorous Tin Man, something’s up.
And, apparently, Eli is the only person who knows the truth.
Getting him to divulge it, though, will be tricky. So my best shot is to familiarize myself with my new environment first.
I study the driver and the short man sitting in the passenger seat, and then Eli, who’s going through his phone.
My fingers clutch a pink kombucha drink that’s sitting in my side of the cupholder and I take a sip. The weird bubbly taste burns my throat and I grimace.
But hey, it calms me down, and at least the can is a beautiful pink, so that’s a win in my book.
I wonder how Eli knows I like this brand. But then again, it’d be weird if he knew nothing after two years of marriage.
And no, I’m still not used to the idea that I’m married.
To Eli.
If I were to write my seventeen-year-old self about this and be like, “Guess what? I’m married to Eli,” she’d probably have a stroke. Naive stupid bitch that she was.
“Where’s my ring?” I ask absentmindedly.
