Chapter Fourteen

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Renn

“Here you go,” Foxx says, slipping me a small pink box. “Need anything else?”

“Nothing you can give me.”

Foxx gives me a look—a warning not to waste his time. It’s always funny when he acts this way since I’m paying for his time. Shouldn’t I be able to waste it ? Maybe on mere mortals. Foxx Carmichael is one tough motherfucker, and when you’re that much of a badass, you make your own damn rules.

“Thanks, Foxx.”

He nods and closes the door behind him.

Blakely is still in the bedroom, finishing her manicure and pedicure. Bianca suggested a little pampering for my new wife, and Astrid arranged for a nail technician to arrive after Blakely’s nap. It took everything I had not to bother her while she slept. Lucky for her, I had a lot to get done … including this .

I open the box with the Siggy logo drawn in a delicate white script. Inside is a light pink diamond ring with two baguettes on either side. Surrounding the stones is a ring of smaller diamonds that trails down the platinum band. A tiny emerald is embedded on the side, a trademark of the high-end jewelry boutique that my mom and sister love.

I haven’t seen the ring in person until now. The plane left the hangar in Tennessee, made a quick stop in Savannah to pick up the ring and Foxx, and then jetted to Las Vegas. Foxx locked it in a safe, and I didn’t get a chance to look at the most expensive piece of jewelry I’ve ever, and probably will ever, purchase.

It’s worth it, though. Or, it will be if she loves it.

My stomach flips at the thought of giving Blakely Evans a wedding ring. It should scare the hell out of me. I go out of my way to ensure that no woman ever reads too much into our relationship, lest they get the wrong idea and think it’ll become something permanent. But I’m not nervous. Hell, I might be a little excited to watch her reaction.

That’s what scares me .

“Hey, Mom,” I say after picking up my ringing phone on the table in the foyer.

“Hi, kiddo. How are you?”

Her voice, calm and kind, makes me smile. “I’m on my honeymoon, you know. It’s kind of rude for you to call.”

“I can’t help it. I’m excited. I can’t wait to meet your wife and take her shopping and invite her over for dinner and—”

“Whoa, lady. Chill out a little, will you?” I chuckle. “You can’t come at her with all that at once. You gotta ease into it. Maybe start with hello and work from there.”

“So I shouldn’t mention that I’ve been going through her social media, right?”

I shake my head. “Why would you do that?”

“I have to know what my daughter-in-law likes, Renn. Will she want coffee or tea? Does she like dogs, or should I put Willard and Winifred in the kennel when she visits? And it helps to know what she looks like …”

Sighing, I lean against the wall and stare across the ocean.

Unlike my father, my mother has been all-in from the start. It’s unsurprising, being that this is her dream. But what is a little curious is that she’s never once asked me if it was real. And I wonder why.

“Mom?”

“What, sweetie?”

“Why have you never asked me about the Vegas wedding to a woman you’ve never met? I mean, I appreciate the support, but I do find it a little odd.”

She laughs softly. “I figured you got enough of that from your father. Besides, you are an intelligent, capable man, Renn. You’ve known Blakely for years, so I knew there was a solid friendship there.” She breathes through the phone. “You seem happy. At the end of the day, that’s all I really care about.”

A smile slips across my lips.

“Are you happy?” she asks.

Voices whisper through the house just before a door shuts. I glance over my shoulder as Blakely enters the room.

My God .

“Renn?” Mom asks.

I clear my throat. “Hang on.” I drop the phone to my side and turn to my wife.

Her face is bright and beautiful— refreshed . A blue tank top with thin straps accentuating her dainty shoulders hangs close to her body. Every curve, every bend and dip, is on full display.

“That was the most relaxing thing I’ve experienced in a long time,” she says, padding barefoot across the floor. “You didn’t have to do that for me.”

“So you enjoyed it?”

She laughs. “Yeah. Of course, I did.”

“Then I had to do that.”

“Renn! What’s going on?” Mom says, her voice growing louder.

Shit . I chuckle, bringing the phone back to my ear. “Sorry, Mom. Blakely just came in.”

“Oh, may I please say hello?”

“I don’t know,” I say, teasing her. “I’m afraid of what you might say.”

She scoffs. “Renn Patrick, you underestimate me if you think there’s no chance of me having Jason fly me to Australia to meet your wife.”

I laugh, my eyes trained on Blakely. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“ Try me .”

“My mom wants to say hello,” I say, tilting my mouth away from the phone. “You don’t have to humor her.”

“ Renn …” she warns from the other side of the world.

Blakely holds a hand with sheer pink nails. “Gimme.”

I give her the phone. “Is the phone all you want? Because you, my lady, are smoking hot.”

“Behave. Your mother can hear you.” She blushes and lifts the device to her ear. “Hi, Mrs. Brewer.”

I can’t hear what my mother says. I only know it makes Blakely laugh.

She moseys around the room, totally at ease. She chats with my mom about our wedding, filling in details, which I’m pretty sure she fabricates, and what led to our decision.

“Oh, you know—tequila,” Blakely says, lifting her gaze to mine. A playful smile kisses her lips as she laughs at my mom’s reply. “That whole night is such a blur. But that’s how it’s supposed to be, right? When you’re in love and marrying the man of your dreams, you get lost in the bliss.”

I raise my brows approvingly. “The man of your dreams?” I whisper.

She rolls her eyes. “Yes, Mrs. Brewer, that sounds lovely. Let’s have lunch when we get back to Tennessee.” Blakely’s eyes widen. “Absolutely. Here’s Renn.”

I take the phone from a flustered Blakely.

“Okay, Mom,” I say, my heart beating fast. “I need to go take care of my wife.”

“I love this for you, Renn. I really do. She sounds like a delight.”

“I’ll see you in a couple of days.”

“Renn?” Mom asks.

“Yeah?”

“Coffee, dogs, and she’s absolutely stunning.”

Will she want coffee or tea? Does she like dogs, or should I put Willard and Winifred in the kennel when she comes to visit? And it helps to know what she looks like …”

I grin.

“Are you happy?” I ponder the question for a few moments, taking stock of how I feel. Am I happy ?

I shouldn’t be. I should be afraid of losing my contract, fucking up Dad’s deal, and dealing with my father when we return to the States. Of being married . But the longer I think about it, the more evident it becomes that the only thing that makes me unhappy is the idea of going back home.

Is it the excitement of something new that’s giving me a shot of adrenaline ? Maybe. Is it being back in Australia, a place that feels a lot like home ? Could be. Or am I truly enjoying being around a woman who has fascinated me from the moment I met her but has been off-limits from day one ?

My stomach knots. “Mom?”

“Yes, son?”

I watch Blakely inspect her manicure and feel a deep sense of satisfaction from knowing I did something to make her feel good.

“I am,” I say. “I really think I might be.”

She sighs happily. “We’ll talk soon. Enjoy your honeymoon.”

“Love you. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye, sweet boy.”

I exhale and turn off my phone, tossing it onto the sofa.

Blakely shrugs. “Is it weird that I just met my mother-in-law for the first time on a phone call?”

“Nah. Everything I do has a bit of irregularity involved. It’s to be expected.”

She laughs.

“Are you hungry?” I ask.

“Starving.”

“Great. Follow me.”

We enter the kitchen to a spread of food delivered just before Foxx came by with the ring.

“I didn’t know what you like,” I say, a rush of frustration over that simple fact filling me again. “So I ordered a few things.”

“A few things?” She leans over the table and inspects the dishes. “There are three, four—five main courses here.” Her head twists to me. “You could’ve just asked what I wanted and saved yourself a hefty sum of cash.”

I chuckle, opening a bottle of wine and pouring us each a glass. “Yes, but you were supposed to be enjoying yourself. I didn’t want to put the burden of what’s for dinner on your shoulders.”

She slumps before shoving off the table. “That’s the sweetest thing.”

“ Wow . Don’t set your expectations too high.”

She laughs, accepting a glass from me. “What are my options?”

“We have Jerusalem artichokes with local mushrooms, scotch fillet, a mussel dish with leeks and saffron, and beef tartare with karkalla seaweed. And a chocolate cake for dessert.”

“You got a chocolate cake?”

“I promised you one for your birthday and then kind of married you instead.”

She hums and takes a seat at the table. “Look at me now, getting the best of both worlds.”

“I’d hold off on saying that.”

“Why?” She watches me sit across from her, smug. “Do you have plans to show me something better?”

My cock twitches to life. I want to answer her, to tell her exactly what I plan on showing her. But if I do, it’ll only embolden her. It’ll drive her much crazier if I ignore it.

“What do you usually have for dinner?” I ask, taking artichokes from the dish.

She blinks, momentarily confused. Her recovery is quick and rather impressive. “It depends if I’m alone or with someone.”

I spear a piece of vegetable a bit harder than necessary.

“If I’m alone, I’ll do a simple pasta or takeout,” she says. “But if I’m with someone, I’ll make chicken or a steak—whatever they like that I have on hand.”

“It’s good you won’t have that problem anymore.”

She scoops a mussel onto her plate. “Oh really? Why?”

“Because I’ll always have what you like at home.”

I chew slowly, watching her attempt to be coy.

“Oh, I see,” she says. “You’re insinuating that I won’t have to worry about having a man over any time soon.”

Ever . I flinch. Easy, Brewer .

The unexpected blast of jealousy catches me off guard. I wipe my mouth with a linen napkin, keeping my eyes on my plate.

“What about you?” she asks, switching gears. “What do you have for dinner?”

“Depends on where we are in the season. A protein, sometimes fish, green vegetables. I like sweet potatoes, pasta.”

“Do you cook?”

I chuckle. “Nope. I order out. It’s my specialty.”

“Well, I love to cook. It’s the only domestic gene I possess. It reminds me of being with my grandmother and my mom, breaking green beans in the summer. Canning tomatoes. Sunday dinners with fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and too many salads to keep track of.” She smiles sadly. “I can’t smell fried food without thinking about my childhood.”

I reach across the table without thinking about it and lay my hand on hers. She looks up at me, her eyes wide and full of appreciation.

Blakely has told me that she misses her mom and wants a family of her own so she’s not alone. I’ve heard what she’s said. But this moment, this look on her face, tells me more about what she wants and needs than any story she’s ever shared.

My throat squeezes as I pull my hand away.

“Well, guess what?” I say. “I have a massive kitchen with every gadget in the world. You can cook anything you want, and I promise to eat it.”

She bites her lip and returns her attention to her plate. “What about you? Did your mom cook for you when you were little?”

“Hell no.” I laugh. “She had six kids with six schedules and six sets of friends—and a husband that might come home at four in the afternoon or four in the morning. Unless it was a holiday, we were probably ordering food. She gave up trying to wrangle us while I was still in elementary.”

“Your mom was super sweet today.”

I take a sip of my wine. “Yeah, well, she’s having the best day of her life—I assure you.”

“Can I ask you why she’s so lovely and your dad … isn’t?” She sets her fork on her plate. “I don’t know what I’m allowed to ask, so I apologize if it’s too personal.”

I sit back in my chair and study her. What an impressive, unique woman .

I’ve never been with someone who asks questions to actually get to know me— the real me . Someone who seems to care. Blakely isn’t pushing or prodding, but she does have an honest curiosity to get to know things about me that aren’t superficial. And I like it. Probably too much .

“Mom was always around,” I say. “She got us off to school, came to the principal’s office when Jason and I got suspended—which happened more than I care to admit.”

She grins, sipping her wine.

“You know, she was at our practices, games, and science fairs. But Dad …” I take a drink and let it settle in my stomach. “He was busy. I don’t fault him for that. I respect it. But he has this warped sense of reality.”

“What do you mean?”

I shrug. “I don’t know how to explain it. It’s as if the only things that matter to him are the things he can write down. The things that get written down. It’s really just a personality conflict between him and me. He gets along fine with my siblings. Well, he and Tate butt heads— stop looking at me like that .”

“Sorry. I’m just excited to get more info about Tate.”

The energy shifts around us, and I place my glass on the table. There’s a challenge on her face, in her words, and whether she’s ready for it or not— I am .

“You’re going to pay for that,” I say.

She lifts a brow. “Promise?”

I don’t answer her, letting her sit with her question and ponder the answer. Instead, I drink my wine and study her pretty face. My wife’s pretty face .

This might be the best mistake I’ve ever made.

“I have something for you,” I say finally.

“What’s that?”

Her tone tells me what she thinks, or hopes, I mean. She’s not wrong. But not yet .

“It’s a birthday present,” I say. “I know nothing can top me as your gift, but I wanted to try.”

She laughs.

I slip the pink box from my pocket and hand it to her. Her eyes widen as it sits in her palm.

“What is this?” she asks.

“Open it.”

I hold my breath as she lifts the top from the box. When she gasps, I exhale.

“Renn! What the hell did you do?” she asks, a laugh painting her words.

“It’s your wedding ring. I mean, if you like it.”

She tears her eyes away from the diamonds. “What do you mean, if I like it ? It’s …” She laughs in disbelief. “Did you actually buy this?”

“What is it with you thinking I’m stealing shit? First, it was babies, and now it’s rings.”

Her cheeks flush. I can feel the warmth run through my body.

“Look, cutie. This is a real marriage, even if it’s only for a short time. And I’m not about to let anyone think I’d marry you and not treat you like a queen.”

“You don’t think it’s over the top? Should I give it back to you when we get divorced? Yeah,” she says hurriedly. “I should. Of course, I should.”

“Blakely.”

She sucks in a breath.

“That’s yours. I want you to have it.” I start to tell her to do whatever she wants with it once we divorce, but I can’t make myself say the words out loud. It would break the moment.

No, it would probably break more than just the moment. I like this woman . I may not have ever thought I’d marry her, but now that I have, I want her to have everything she wants … which seems like such a one-eighty from my usual position. But this is Blakely . Everything is different.

“Please keep it,” I say. “I bought it for you. I hoped you’d like it.”

“In that case, thank you. You’ve blown my mind a little bit.”

Just wait until later …

I take the box from her and remove the ring. My heart pounds as I slip the delicate band around her left finger.

She lifts her hand in the air. “Now I get it.”

“Get what?”

She places her hands on her lap. “That’s why you got my nails done. Because you knew you were putting a ring on one of them.”

I smile.

“You, Mr. Brewer, are doing extremely well on your first day as a husband.”

“Am I?”

“Yes.” Her eyes darken. “But you could do better.”

I hum, pressing my shoulder blades against the chair to keep from grabbing her and proving her right.

She stands between my knees, bumping one with the side of her thigh to make more room. The contact sends a shock through my system until it pools in my cock.

The heat of her gaze—how it tells me exactly what she wants—is palpable. The parting of her lips, her hair falling to one side, and the slow, sexy smile that slips across her face makes it very hard to resist.

I lift my chin until our eyes lock. What do you want, Blakely? Tell me.

“So you’re my husband now,” she says, gripping the arms of my chair and boxing me in. The top of her dress hangs low and exposes the top of her cleavage. “That means I can kiss you whenever I want, right?”

I smirk.

She holds my gaze and slowly, deliberately lowers her mouth.

Fucking hell .

Her lips are soft, silky—pillowy against my own. She holds my face as she moves her mouth against mine.

My blood burns hot. Every muscle tenses. My fingers itch to touch, feel, and claim every part of her as mine.

Her lips, sweet from the wine, part and allow my tongue to slip inside. She combs her fingers through my hair as I deepen the kiss, scraping her nails across my scalp.

I bite her bottom lip, eliciting a yelp, just as I palm the backs of her thighs and tug her closer. She sags against me. Her mouth opened for my use, her neck falling to the side to offer me access.

Blakely moans into my mouth, sending a shock wave spiraling through me. I chuckle. She wraps my hair in her fists and tugs my head back.

Heat radiates from her pussy, warming my fingers that are gripping her inner thighs. She spreads her legs farther to encourage me to continue their ascent toward her opening.

I want her. My God, I want her . I want her so badly that I could crawl out of my skin … but I don’t.

Instead, I sweep my tongue across her lips. Dig my fingertips into her smooth skin. Absorb the weight of her chest pressed into me.

And then release her. I pull away.

Blakely pants, struggling to regain her composure. The taste of her lingering on my mouth does nothing to quell my ache for her. My painful, desperate need to be deep inside her.

“What?” she asks, her eyes wild. “Why did you stop?”

“Because you haven’t begged.”