Page 8 of Breathe Me: Smith & Belle

“No!” I jumped in, afraid this would spiral into a hormone-drenched misunderstanding. “You just had a swim earlier, and we never got dinner.”

“I guess…” Her blue eyes darted to me before returning to study the meager spread I’d scrounged together. “It just spooked me and then with everything else, I’m too anxious to be hungry.”

“Well, the spoils of our archeological digs will be removed tomorrow,” I informed her, “and the wine cellar is getting done on time.”

“What? How? It was already behind and now they have to wait for someone to come and take away bones.” She shivered again and I realized it—and the blanket—had nothing to do with her being cold. She was genuinely frightened.

I moved closer to her, and she relaxed some. “They’re going to work over the weekend to catch up on the wine cellar, and we’re going to London until it’s finished. The whole thing. I’m not coming back here until every last hammer has been removed from this bloody place.”

She dropped the blanket, a wide smile carving across her lips. We’d made it all of it two nights in Sussex before going back to London for at least a week—if not more—and she couldn’t be more pleased. “Really? I need to call Edward and Clara and—”

“Done,” I stopped her. “I texted them as soon as I made the arrangements with Benjamin. I need to meet with some business associates anyway.”

“Business associates?” She cocked an eyebrow. “What about friends?”

“I don’t have friends,” I said brusquely.

“Yes, you do.”

“I have your friends who happen to usually need me to do something for them.” I leaned over and kissed her forehead. “That makes us business associates.”

“What about Georgia?” she pressed.

“Don’t let Georgia catch you calling her a friend,” I advised. In truth, Georgia Kincaid was more than a friend to me, but not in the typical way. The bond we shared was more like those between a brother and sister. We’d both grown up under the thumb of a sinister sociopath, so like most families, our bond hinged largely on shared traumatic experiences.

“Are you going to talk to Alexander?” she asked quietly.

We’d been tiptoeing around the topic for weeks. Although we had seen our inner circle a number of times since we bought Thornham, things had shifted between all of us. Alexander, a man I butted heads with as much as I’d grown to respect him, had become increasingly insular after his wife had nearly died in a thwarted kidnapping. I couldn’t blame him for being protective of her, but I hadn’t been ready to swear fealty to him either. I had my own wife and child to worry about now. I knew he understood that, but it left our ends at odds with one another.

“Maybe I should invite Nora,” Belle said, chewing another grape. “Get a chance to know her a little better.”

“Who?” I asked, still half caught in my own thoughts.

“Nora. The last girl we interviewed,” she said, screwing up her face. “I know you didn’t forget her. She’s gorgeous.”

I tilted my head, sorting through my memories of today. There were a lot of them. “The last one? She seemed nice. I don’t remember her being particularly pretty. What was her name again?”

I didn’t remember. I wasn’t just saying that to appease my very pregnant wife.

“No-ra,” Belle said with a roll of her eyes that made me think about spanking her attitude right out of her. “And don’t tell me you didn’t think she was hot.”

“I can’t say I remember that.” I shrugged. “But you liked her?”

She crossed her arms like I’d somehow offended her. “Yeah, I did—and you are seriously telling me that you didn’t have the slightest attraction to her?”

“I don’t think I’m the one attracted to her, beautiful.” I said with a smirk. “Now I wish I remembered her better, because you’re giving me all sorts of ideas about you and her.”

“Oh, you’d like that, huh?” She stuck a tongue out at me. “Predictable.”

“In my defense, I’m not the one who thinks she’s hot.”

“You’re just trying to make me feel better,” she said, showcasing the stubborn streak that first caught me in Belle’s snares. “Because I’m fat and pregnant and she’s hot and perfect and—”

“You are perfect,” I cut her off, feeling the intense wave of anger I’d always felt when someone criticized my perfect wife—even when she was the one doing the damage.

“Please! Most days I wear leggings as pants,” she said as though this had some meaningful contribution to reality. “I can’t even see my toes anymore and sometimes when I laugh…”

“Perfect,” I repeated, “and don’t you dare say something negative about my wife.”