41. Mira

41

MIRA

"Oh, no."

Zane's voice drifts into the bedroom where I've been dutifully putting clothes on hangers for an eternity. If it takes ten thousand hours to become an expert at something, then I'm definitely a leading expert in the field of clothes hanging.

My knees pop as I stand up straight for the first time in way too long and head off to find my husband.

The thought still brings a smile to my face. My husband.

Zane Whitaker is my husband.

"Hello?" I pad barefoot down the hallway, poking my head into rooms to look for him as I go.

Compared to the madness of planning a wedding in one week, unpacking has been leisurely. A relaxing stroll in the park compared to the Ironman Triathlon.

But the office is still a catastrophe. I actually pull the door closed so I don't have to think about the computer cords and filing cabinets that will need to be organized at some fuzzy, distant point in the future that will never come if I have anything to say about it.

Aiden's room is entirely unpacked, though. All of his superhero action figures have made themselves at home on the top row of his bookshelves, and he has a giant bean bag chair that he's sneakily slept in three times this week. Between his "cool" room—his words, not mine—and the swingset Zane set up in the backyard months ago, Aiden is little more than a blur in passing, usually running from one to the other.

I was worried how he'd adjust to Zane and me getting married and the move happening at the same time, but he acts like nothing has changed at all.

In some ways, it hasn't.

Zane and I still find each other under the blankets most mornings before we stumble to the kitchen for coffee. Then it's a mad dash of showers and breakfast and shuttling everyone off to practice and school, which takes longer now that we're in the thick of suburbia.

We still cook together. Aiden chops fruits and vegetables with his plastic knife while Zane and I bicker over the difference between a "simmer" and a "rolling boil."

In the evenings, we read picture books and take turns making Aiden giggle until he's too sleepy to keep his eyes open. Zane and I pretend we're going to start a new show or maybe call some friends, invite people to sit under the lights of the patio, and chat, but we don't make it past wondering who we should invite before we're stumbling towards our bedroom.

In other ways, it's completely different.

Unlike before, where I could hear a countdown clock ticking down the seconds, Zane and Aiden are mine. Forever.

I'm not sure that's something I'll ever get used to. I kind of hope I don't.

"That's just great," Zane groans again.

I throw up my hands. "This is the worst game of Marco Polo ever. Where are you?"

"Sunroom."

I wrinkle my nose. "We have a sunroom?"

"That's the problem!" I follow the sound of Zane's voice through the living room to a set of French doors. There's been a curtain over the glass since we moved in, but it's pulled back now, revealing a?—

"Sunroom!" I spin in a circle, gaping at the sunlight streaming through the windows onto warm-flecked tiles. "I thought those doors went to the garage or something. How did I not know this was here?"

Probably because I've been too busy scaling Mount Neverending Clothes. I haven't done much exploring. Plus, by the looks of it, this little room wouldn't be visible from the front of the house. And the wooden trellis along the patio blocks the view of this room from the backyard.

"The doors have been locked since we moved in. I just found the key."

Zane is wearing his work clothes—a pair of old jeans with a fraying hem and a dark t-shirt—and he still looks like he's ready for the fine people at GQ to show up any second for a photoshoot. He's sitting on a pristine-looking wicker couch, a frown tugging on the corners of his mouth.

It's the same frown he wore the three different times the people from the security system company came out to problem solve why our system keeps failing to arm.

"Someone looks glum." I walk over to him, stopping between his spread legs. "Is it the security system again?"

"No. It's that I just found a new room in the house."

I look around and wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn't. "You're going to have to explain this to me real slow because I'm not following. This room is incredible. I might live out here."

I can already picture fairy lights hanging around the edge of the room, candles glowing on the table in the center. I could curl up on the couch with a book.

"It is incredible. We'll get a lot of use out of it," he admits. "The trouble is, we're going to be late."

I look at my bare wrist even though I've never worn a watch a day in my life. "No, we have hours until we need to leave for the volunteering event. Aiden is still at school."

This volunteering opportunity is the first team/family event that Zane has invited me to as a newly-minted member of his actual family. I've met everyone on the team before, but I still want to make a good first impression as Zane's wife, even if we aren't technically announcing that to the press just yet. Being late is not an option.

"Hours?" His hands slide up my thighs, curling around my ass under my sundress. "Oh, then everything is fine."

I let out a breathless laugh. "The stress of the last week is catching up to you. You're not making any sense."

"Then let me make myself clear." Suddenly, he pulls me onto his lap. My knees settle on either side of his hips. "As you know, I've been on a tireless crusade to fuck you in every room of our new house. After finally catching you in the laundry room last night?—"

" Attacking me in the laundry room last night." I kiss his cheek and reposition, noticing the hard bulge between his legs for the first time. "I was trying to put a load in the washer and you threw me on top of the dryer like an animal."

"—I thought I'd christened every room, but now, here's a whole new room that I haven't touched you in."

Understanding dawns, and I start to scrabble away from him. "Zane, we can't. Aiden gets out of school in an hour and I have unpacking to do!"

He loops a strong arm around my waist, jerking me back against him. Already, the friction is devastating. "Some things are more important than unpacking, Mira. We have to make this house a home somehow."

"With our things !" I laugh, trying and failing to fight off his grabby hands. "We make it a home by getting rid of the cardboard boxes ."

He nuzzles his stubbly face into my neck while his hands slide higher and higher under my dress. "Agree to disagree. How about we do it my way first… and then one more time, just to be safe. Then we can do it your way."

There's no point arguing. Mostly because I don't want to.

I sink against him and we christen the wicker couch.

And the tile floor.

And one window that now needs a good cleaning before anyone comes over and sees my handprints on the glass.

Zane kisses me on the cheek, agreeing to disagree yet again. "I like the handprints. They make the place look lived in. It adds character."

Against all odds, we make it to the volunteering event with plenty of time to spare.

On the way over, Zane told me that the team does these community events every few months—fundraisers for cancer research, donating books to underfunded public schools—but this event is a first.

A fact that seems to be upsetting Taylor more than anyone.

"Usually, I just take some shots of the guys huddling up with underprivileged kids or holding onto a big check, but what am I supposed to do with this?" She flings her arms at the rundown brick building with Domestic Violence Shelter painted on the side.

I actually teared up when Zane told me we'd be organizing donations for the shelter. Places like this fed and clothed me more nights than I can count, especially right after I ran away. Being here is a reminder of where I started and how far I've come.

"These people have powerful stories, Tay. The team is doing great work here."

"I know that, but I can't ask these people to sign waivers to be used for promotional material. Some of them are literally running for their lives," she hisses softly. "Plus, as nice as this is, it's a bummer. It doesn't roll off the tongue the way ‘we're helping to cure cancer' does."

I snatch her phone out of her hand. "Stop thinking like Social Media Coordinator Barbie and just be here as Daniel's girlfriend. I don't think he invited you here to document anything."

She chews on her lip. "Yeah, but my dad will be pissed if I don't. As much as he wants to pretend these events are just to give back to the community, everything is about PR. Fans eat this shit up. Then they buy merch and season passes and flood his pockets with cash. It's the way of the world."

I want to disagree, but she isn't wrong. Even though this is supposed to be a family-only event, I notice a journalist making the rounds, asking questions. It's why Zane is keeping his distance from me: people know we're dating, but we don't want to hard launch our marriage outside of a domestic violence shelter. It's called "reading the room."

A woman who works for the shelter finds Taylor and me with our hands empty and quickly puts us to work sorting clothes so they can be washed by a line of industrial washing machines.

An hour ago, I would've said I never wanted to see another pile of clothes in my life, but I don't mind this. It feels good to help people the way I wish I'd been helped.

"This whole thing is boring, right?" A petulant groan cuts through our work and Carson Deluth flops on the pile I'm folding, chin resting on his fists. "I don't know who came up with this charity, but playing hockey with kids is way more fun."

Carson has been flashing smiles at me for the last hour. I know he's only doing it to get under Zane's skin, but I'm not in the mood to be a victim of his small dick energy. I hoped I'd make it through the entire event without actually having to talk to him. Seems my luck has run out.

Thankfully, where luck ends, Taylor Hall begins.

"Yes, because we shouldn't do anything for others unless it's fun," she sneers. "If I remember right, you weren't at the last hockey clinic, Carson. But I remember seeing pictures online from your ski trip. That looked fun ."

God, I love her.

I bite back a smile and drop my head, pretending to be very focused on whether the hot pink shirt in my hands should go in the darks or the colors pile.

His eyes narrow, but his oily smile stays firmly in place. "There weren't enough volunteer slots for everyone on the team. I guess that's the benefit of this one: everyone can help and bring a puck bunny plus-one."

Taylor grins, but only I can see the fangs beneath the smile. "Weird, because I didn't see that you had a plus-one. Is she here or…?" Taylor makes a big show of looking around the warehouse before she gives him a pitying frown. "Don't worry, I'm sure you'll find someone desperate enough to ride your schlong for the next volunteer event."

Carson's smile finally slips, but as he opens his mouth to speak, a deep voice cuts in, sending a shiver straight to the core of me.

Zane keeps his eyes on me as he growls at Carson. "The rookies are unloading more boxes from the truck if you need something to do. Talking to my—to the women doesn't count."

Everyone from the wedding has been sworn to secrecy about our marriage until the news is officially announced. Apparently, that vow of silence extends to Carson Deluth.

"And what have you been doing?" Carson drawls.

Zane points to a pyramid of boxes twelve feet tall, and Carson's mouth twists in a frown. As he turns away, I hear him mumble, "Maybe these people should get a job and buy their own clothes. It's what the rest of us do."

Taylor hitches a thumb in the direction of the door he disappeared through. "That one doesn't have a charitable bone in his body. Just pure asshole, through and through." She gathers up a load of colors and waddles off to find an open washer.

Zane is still staring at me, his fists tight at his side. "What did he say to you?"

"Nothing. Really. Just being his usual charming self." Zane doesn't even crack a smile. I reach over the clothes between us and grab his hand. "Really, it's fine. He's an asshole and I can take care of myself."

Something flares in Zane's eyes, and I realize what I said. And how many times I've said it before.

Before I can say anything else, Coach Popov claps a hand on Zane's shoulder as he passes by. "This was a good idea, Whitaker."

Zane shrugs, looking unusually sheepish. "Thanks."

"What was a good idea?"

Coach Popov gestures around. "This."

I look back and forward between the two men, trying to put the pieces together. "This charity? Like, the domestic violence shelter?"

"Yep. Whitaker thought we should stretch our charity muscles and do something with some real-world impact. I think it's going well." Coach turns, taking in the hockey players and staff unloading boxes and washing clothes. "We might make this an annual thing."

Coach wanders off to help the people organizing crisis kits. I'm glad, because my eyes seem to be leaking.

"You didn't tell me this was your idea," I snap at Zane.

"You didn't ask."

"I didn't know I needed to ask." I shove his shoulder gently, but he catches my wrist and presses my hand to his heart. "I figured someone on staff chose the charities."

"Usually, they do. But I wanted to do something special." His blue eyes find mine. "I wanted to do something to honor you."

For years, I didn't think anyone could love me. My family didn't. Couldn't. Why would anyone else?

Then I met Taylor and thought, maybe, if I kept my past to myself, people could come to care about me. So long as it was easy, and I didn't make them work too hard for it.

But the fact that Zane Whitaker, my husband, not only loves me as I am now—healing and more or less whole—but also wants to honor the scared, hopeless, broken woman I was seven years ago?

I don't know what to do with that.

I open my mouth to try to say something , but I'm a blubbering mess.

Zane walks around the pile and pulls me to his chest. "I didn't plan to make you cry."

"I'm just so happy." I stretch onto my toes and give him a watery kiss. "I love you so much. And I'm so happy to be your wife."