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When a man asksa woman to be his wife, he shouldn’t have to be without her again. But life doesn’t obey “shoulds,” and for the past month, I’ve been working on promotions for my new album in LA while she wrapped up handing off her show in New York.
Being forced to live apart from the person you love means you devote a lot of energy to reunion fantasies.
In the hours between finishing my album, Annie and I have reunited on the marble kitchen counter. The walk-in-closet-sized shower. The hot tub. The pool.
Fuck, have we reunited in the pool…
None of my fantasies had her staring at me like this.
“What’s going on?” She’s frozen in the doorway like some beautiful woodland creature realizing it wandered to the wrong stream to drink. Color has her cheeks pink under the trace of freckles. Her black dress skims curves I know in exquisite detail, leaving her shoulders bare and ending midway down the toned thighs I could spin endless fantasies out of, especially when they’re wrapped around me.
“You’re early,” I say.
Looking past me, she surveys the suits who’re covering their notepads and computers.
“It’s okay,” I tell them.
Only then do they relax an inch. I turn back to my fiancée and close the distance between us in a few easy strides. She smells as good as she looks, and I want to bury my face in her neck.
And then other places.
I’ve seen every expression Annie Jamieson owns, and with a few exceptions—like the way she looks when I’ve ripped her heart in two, which I swear I’ll never witness again—I love them all. But in this moment, there are few things I wouldn’t give to replace her look of stunned suspicion with one of wanton pleasure.
“These are my attorneys,” I say, covering up my desires. “We’re working up an agreement.”
She cocks her head, amber eyes flashing. “It’s a little late to talk about a prenup.”
I’d laugh if she didn’t look so alarmed.
My gaze strokes over the curve of her full lower lip, wishing I could feel it rather than stare at it. “It’s not a prenup. I’m buying Wicked.”
She stiffens, turning before I kiss her so my mouth grazes her cheek instead.
Annie heads to the kitchen.
I hold up a finger to let the lawyers know I’ll be a second before following her. She sidesteps around boxes of merchandise I’m supposed to sign for my upcoming tour, and I avoid them too.
Near the giant stainless smart fridge, she turns. “You’re what?”
This is not how I wanted this to happen.
“Your dad’s been working on a deal since he heard they were at risk of going under. Quietly.”
Something clicks behind her eyes. “He’s been trying to get hold of me, but we’ve been playing phone tag. Since when are you involved?”
“He needed additional partners.”
“You mean your money.”
“Yes. We’ve been discussing it for a few weeks—”
“Not with me.” Her voice is sharp, but there’s an edge of hurt underneath. I hate that I put it there.
Annie Jamieson experiences the world full throttle. It’s one of the things I love about her. It fucking ruins me how raw she is, and it makes me want to protect her—from the world and from herself when she feels everything.
“I wanted to tell you in person.”
