Page 50 of Seale the Deal

She snorts, and then she starts laughing again, this time louder. It rises and rolls out of her like a wave. I have no clue why she’s laughing, but I kind of like this unfiltered, raw version of her.

Earlier tonight at Remi’s, she kept that tight little smile whenever the wedding came up. Her answers were tight and noncommittal. I could see in her stiff body language how uncomfortable she was. Which also means I’m noticing far too much about her.

She stops suddenly and looks down.

I’m still wearing my shoes, she says again, like we didn’t just have a whole conversation about how it doesn’t matter.

Before I can repeat that I don’t care about her wearing her shoes in the house, she leans forward to untie them, and holy hell. The curve of her ass in those pants ought to be illegal. I’ve spent the entire evening trying not to notice how good she looks, but now, up close, with her bent over and those jeans hugging her like a second skin… I’m noticing.

Calm down, Ruger.

This is just the drought talking. A year and change without sex will scramble a man’s brain. You’re not interested, you’re just touch-starved. That’s all this is.

Water! I blurt, loud enough that Wrenley jumps and blinks at me. I point at her, desperate for distraction. You need water. Hydration. No one wants a hangover tomorrow.

I’d rather McDonald’s. God, I miss McDonald’s. That would be so good right now. But I also like water, she says, her voice dreamy and slow. It’s wet.

She pauses. I freeze.

Then—God help me—she steps closer.

You know, sometimes I’m wet, she says, tilting her head up and smiling softly.

I swallow hard. Oh?

She lifts her hand and traces a swerving line down my arm. Like a slip and slide.

Jesus. Christ.

She’s talking about exactly what I’m trying not to think about. I drag a hand over my mouth and turn for the kitchen like it might save me.

Yeah, okay, I mutter, already halfway there. Definitely getting that water now.

I grab the bottle from the fridge, twist the cap for her, and press it to my temple like it might cool down the image now permanently scorched into my skull.

I shut the fridge door with more force than necessary and turn back toward the entry, where she’s now swaying slightly, a dreamy, blissed-out smile on her face like she hasn’t nearly detonated my willpower with a five-word sentence.

Look alive, Wren, I call, tossing her the bottle underhand.

It’s a soft toss, and I assume it’ll be an easy catch. Except it’s not. Because instead of catching it, she head-butts it. The thwack echoes through the house like a slap, and then—silence.

Shit! Wren! Are you okay?

She blinks, stunned, then clutches her nose because she’s just been punched in the face by her desperately needed hydration. And then she laughs. She literally doubles over, wheezing with laughter, tears forming in her eyes… or is that blood?

Oh my God, she gasps between shrieks. Did you just assault me, your perfect, amazing fiancée?

It was an accident, I mutter, marching down the hallway toward her. Also, you’re not bleeding, are you?

She pulls her hands away from her face. There’s blood. Not a lot, but enough to punch me with a wave of guilt.

Okay. Emergency protocol. I go back into the kitchen and grab a paper towel. Tilt your head forward and pinch the bridge. Don’t swallow any of it.

I know what to do with a nosebleed, she says nasally. This isn’t the first thing I’ve accidentally caught with my face.

She snorts at that, which unfortunately sends more blood down her lip and sets her off laughing all over again.

I can’t breathe! she wheezes. Your aim is so bad!