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She took a deep breath. "I can't sleep with you in my bed tonight. I'm just not—"
"I'll sleep on the couch," I quickly said, trying to steady my emotions.
"It's not the best spot to sleep," she stated as she walked toward the bedroom, which I'd started to think was ours.
"I'll be fine."
She didn’t respond to my pithy statement and instead closed the bedroom door behind her.
I made my way to the small, lumpy couch. It was nowhere near as comfortable as my bed—or hers—but that didn’t matter. I needed to be here to prove I wasn’t going anywhere. I undressed and stretched out on the couch in my underwear. The night had been a fucking disaster, just as Elsa had worried it would be. I should've behaved better; I knew that now. I should've been there to ward off men like Pascal Fournier and Vicent Arsenault.
I wasn't used to having a wife, having someone I had to take care of when I was out and about. I had stupidly put her safety at risk by setting her aside while I mingled for the sake of business.
I had to make up for this, I thought. I also had to make up for calling our marriage an arrangement when she'd done everything she could to make this arealrelationship, one that soothed me.
If that meant we'd fight once in a while, maybe I needed to learn to suck it up. Hell, I was married, and now it was time to pay the piper.
Chapter 23
Elsa
Itiptoed out of the bedroom in my sleep shorts and a tank top that no longer covered my belly. Duncan was stretched out on the small, lumpy couch in the living room. He looked so out of place, his long legs hanging off the edge, his discomfort evident. It tugged at my heart.
Mamman always said that for a good marriage—though she never had one—you never went to bed angry, and you always slept in the same bed, no matter what.
I took a deep breath and walked over to Duncan, my anger softening with each step.
"Are you awake?" I asked quietly.
He opened his eyes and looked up at me, a blend of surprise and guilt in his gaze. "Ma douce."
Merdé! How was I supposed to harden my heart when he called me his sweet?
I sighed, sitting down on the edge of the couch, close to him but far enough to maintain the illusion of distance. "We're both upset about tonight. But I don't want us to go to bed angry. This isn't how I want us to deal with problems."
He sat up, his eyes never leaving mine. "I don't want there to be problems."
I smiled sadly at him. "You know that's not how life works, right?"
He reached out and took my hand. "I know, but I," he paused, "am not good with conflict."
It was something he had never admitted before, though I'd seen that in him. He'd rather walk away than argue a point, just like he had when we first married and he'd hidden in his suite at the Ritz.
I squeezed his hand, feeling the truth in his words, grateful he had opened up to me. "I don’t want to push you away, Duncan. I want to find a way to make this work."
He pulled me closer, his arms wrapping around me in a comforting hug. "I want that too. More than anything."
I leaned into him, letting the tenderness of his embrace melt away the remnants of my anger. "Let's go to bed," I said softly. "We can figure this out together."
He nodded, relief evident in his eyes as his hand caressed my belly under my tank top. "Ma douce, you have a big heart."
"That's my stomach, pal, not my heart," I joked, putting on an exaggerated American accent.
He cupped my breast then. "I'm sorry, Elsa, for hurting your feelings, for allowing you to deal with Fournier on your own, for being jealous of Arsenault."
I kissed him on his mouth softly. "And I'm sorry for being jealous of Giselle."
His eyes narrowed. "Who the fuck is Giselle?"
