4. Fucking Hemingway

DARREN

Itake the stairs two at a time, and when I get to the top, I hear a slosh of water come from the guest bedroom. She didn't leave but she was going to, and the thought has me all tied up in knots.

Standing in the doorway, I take a deep breath and peer inside, noticing how it looks like a guest room – nothing personal of Evangeline's, not even a scented candle or a book of poetry on the nightstand to show that she lives here.

My faded Georgetown t-shirt lays rumpled on the bed as if she'd slept in it. I bring it to my nose and it smells like her – vanilla and cherry blossoms – no sign of my expensive cologne. The thought of her sleeping in my shirt does things to me… wicked things.

The ensuite door is cracked open enough to see the steam on the mirror. I push it open, noticing her hair pulled into a bun with a few wet strands clinging to the side of her neck as she rests her head on the edge. Bubbles annoyingly obscure everything aside from a kneecap that crests the surface. I've never been so mesmerized by such a simple sliver of exposed skin before in my life, but when it dips under the bubbles, I find myself desperately disappointed.

All the anger I had felt before slowly ebbs away – not completely, but enough for me to enter the room. She doesn't seem shocked by my presence. She just looks at me with an annoyed expression that I find tempting. It's the way her eyes narrow into an almond shape and her lips press together to form an alluring pout that pulls out the dark desire from deep within me. Even the anger and the hurt that's still under the surface does little to suffocate the need for her.

I shouldn't want her.

But I do.

I want her in a way that defies reason when I should hate her – when the pain inside of me turns into a ball of jealous hate for any man that has touched her – even if that man was my father.

"Did Alistair bail you out, or was he in there with you?" she muses sarcastically, and pushes her hand through the bubbles to grip the edge.

I cross my hands over my chest with my feet apart and stare down at her, the bubbles now barely covering her breasts. My eyes track the movement of her foot as she lifts it out of the water and places it on the edge near the faucet.

"Fortunately, I wasn't in jail, but so nice of you to care, wife."

"No one said anything about caring." She turns away, and I can't help but smile at the defiant expression on her face.

"Not sure I believe that, but…"

She whips her head around. "I don't care what you believe, but since we're on the subject, Darren, you're a grown man or so you claim to be, and you can do whatever you want, but when it involves my integrity…"

"Your integrity?"

"Yes, my integrity," she sneers, "because when I tell you something, it's the truth. I have no reason to lie, and you just leave like a child who didn't get his way," she finishes.

"Look who's talking. I know all about the jet. Nice, by the way. Did you think they wouldn't alert me?"

Her face falls.

"You're still here."

"Yes, Darren. I'm still here."

"Why is that, if I'm such an asshole?"

"You're very good at it, too."

She doesn't answer the damn question, and I rub my chin in frustration.

"Mechanical difficulties?" I inquire, lifting an eyebrow.

"No."

"Was it the book?" I give I her a cocky grin. It's not exactly the way I wanted her to find it, but it's been eating me up inside ever since I found out she chartered the plane.

She laughs. Correction, it's more like a scoff. "Be careful, Darren, or your ego will cause your head to explode."

Fucking Hemingway.

I scratch my head. "Forgive me for being nice."

"You could teach a class in passive aggressive behavior, you know that?" she accuses.

"You can't even begin to understand what I'm going through!" I snap.

"Your parents died unexpectedly, but at a certain point, that excuse doesn't work anymore, and then you're just a plain asshole." Her animated gestures cause the water to slosh over the edge of the tub, creating a pool at my feet.

"You hide fucking information from me and I'm the asshole?" I ask, getting heated.

"So now you want to talk? Okay, Darren." She sits up in the tub, her knees poking through the bubbles. "And what if I had told you, would that have changed anything? Would you still have coerced me into marrying you?" she asks, and I watch droplets of water fall down her long neck.

"I don't know, but at least I'd have made an informed decision." I know damn well I would have still wanted her.

"Don't give me your judgmental look, because what I did with my life before you is my business!" she fumes, flinging soapy water at me.

"Hey!" I look down at my jeans, now wet with bubbles. "Don't act like you're innocent because I know what you think of me," I accuse, but I can't help noticing how the bubbles seem to be dissipating from the tub, allowing me to see the rosebud of her nipples peeking out through the water.

"And what do I think of you, Darren?" she asks, splashing more of the water and bubbles at me. "That you're a spoiled brat who doesn't know what it's like to have to work for everything you have?"

I provoke her more by adding, "Not true," I lift my eyebrows. "I clerked for Judge Hopkins, but then Alistair had to go and defile his daughter and got me fired."

"You're disgusting," she splashes more water at me. My pants are now soaked and my shirt is plastered to my chest. "You and Alistair deserve each other. You should have married him."

Only a few bubbles are left, leaving the water semitransparent, and my stomach tightens. My fingers twitch and I shove them in my pockets. Giving in would let her know how much she affects me, and I've already given her too much ammunition.

"Alistair would have asked for ten million. You were a bargain."

That rewards me with a splash of water to my face. "Jesus, Evan! At this rate I should just join you in the bathtub," I say, while shaking the wet hair from my face.

I blink back the water and adjust my vision, locking eyes with her. The water ripples around her pert nipples which are floating above the line; a dusky pink, the color of one of the roses in the garden. She's playing with fire when she relaxes her legs, letting her thighs fall open and giving me a better view of her pussy which is just begging for me to pull back the layers and sink my tongue inside. A deep groan works its way up my throat, and I pull at the collar of my shirt. The air is thick and humid, and I can feel the hairs at the back of my neck curl.

Despite everything, knowing that she omitted certain important information, and the fact that she may still be in love with my father, I still feel I made the right decision in marrying her. No debutant would spread her legs like this, giving me a view of her bare cunt, and by the look on her face, love it.

She knows I'm staring and I couldn't pull my eyes away even if a train ran right through the middle of the bathroom. She surprises me by throwing the soapy sponge in my face. Right in my fucking eyes.

"Shit!" I blindly feel around and find a towel to wipe my eyes.

She stands, wraps a towel around herself, and leaves.

"You didn't tell me why you didn't leave!" I call after her.

"Five million dollars!" she says.