Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Seven

I woke the next morning to a yucky taste in my mouth, a pounding pain in my head, and a horrid churning sensation in my stomach. Hello, hangover.

I swallowed around a dry throat, the sound audible. God, I felt like complete shit. With cherries on top and everything. I would have rolled onto my side and curled up in a tight ball if I didn’t worry I might hurl.

At least I had no plans or commitments for the day. I could die in peace.

As the final sleep motes left my mind, clearing it, I became aware of something. Something that made my brow weakly knit in confusion.

A warm, heavy weight was resting on my stomach.

Wary of the light, I lifted my eyelids only slightly and gave my eyes a few seconds to adjust. I then very slowly turned my head, ignoring that it made the ache in my skull sharpen, and blinked hard to clear my blurry vision. And there was Dax. He lay flat on his stomach, sound asleep, one arm tossed over my front.

My pulse spiked. Well, this was different. A singular occurrence, in fact.

I would have been embarrassed if it was a case where I’d scooted over to him, but I wasn’t on his side of the mattress. He wasn’t on my side either. We’d seemingly edged closer to each other and met somewhere in the middle during sleep.

My chest went tight and warm, touched that he’d left his “spot.”

My brain, however, insisted that this would be an anomaly and not to read shit into it.

Personally, I felt it would be dumb to let myself imagine that it meant anything. But I could hope, couldn’t I?

The trouble was … I’d done a lot of hoping over the years when it came to relationships. Clinging to faith had never paid off before.

Ugh, I was too hungover to mentally juggle all this.

Switching my gaze to the ceiling, I pressed my fingertips hard against my pulsing temples. I needed painkillers pronto.

My memories of the previous night were a little fuzzy in places, but I didn’t seem to have huge gaps in my—

I stilled as a particular memory hit me. Oh God, I told him I’d missed him.

You dumb heifer.

Slapping a hand over my eyes, I groaned in total mortification.

Dax stirred beside me at the sound, pulling in a breath. “Morning,” he greeted, his voice all thick and rumbly from sleep.

“I hate wine,” I whispered, not in the least bit impressed when I sensed his shoulders shake. Removing my hand from my face, I looked at him again, my gaze narrowing at the amused smile he wore. “Something funny?”

Ignoring my question, he raked his gaze over my face, not bothering to shrink his smile. “How do you feel?”

“Peachy.”

His smile amped up a notch, taking on a superior quality. “You have no one to blame but yourself.”

This motherfucker. “That was plain insensitive.”

He gave a slight shrug. “Doesn’t make me wrong.” He eased onto his side, pulling back his arm. “Go shower. You smell like a winery.”

“Flatterer.” Given he’d be well-aware I was in no condition to indulge in shower sex, I had no doubt that I’d be showering alone this morning.

We didn’t regularly shower together. When we did, it always went the same way: we each took care of washing our own bodies and hair, he sat back and watched while I finished since he was always done first, and then we’d fuck.

It was never planned. He just … appeared in the stall sometimes—no prior warning, not even a hint that he might join me. I got the feeling he simply liked to keep me on my toes.

My movements a little clunky and uncoordinated, I threw back the covers, edged out of bed, and carefully stood—so damn thankful the room didn’t spin. My footsteps dragging, I padded to the ensuite bathroom. Inside, there was a whole lot of fumbling and weaving as I did my business.

I winced when I got a good look at my reflection in the mirror. Dear Lord. It was galling to know that Dax had seen me like this.

My eyes were mere slits. My face was all puffy. Smudges of mascara were beneath my eyes and smeared across my cheeks. And my hair … oh, my hair. I wouldn’t be surprised to find baby birds in it.

Shit, the baby bird! He’d better have been kidding about Gypsy’s most recent “gift.”

Tugging open the door of the wall-mounted cabinet, I dug two painkillers out of a small bottle and quickly downed them. Silently praying my headache passed fast, I took a swift shower. As expected, he didn’t join me.

Having wrapped a fluffy towel around myself. I padded back into the bedroom and—

I halted.

On my nightstand stood a tall glass of water and also a glass of what looked to be coconut water. My stupid heart squeezed, so easily touched by the little things he did. Which made me feel far too vulnerable; granted him too much power. Neither of which I could do anything about.

In between pulling on comfy clothes and brushing my wet hair, I took swigs of both drinks until each glass was empty. Downstairs, I found Dax making coffee in the kitchen. The smell upset my queasy stomach. Fuck wine.

He looked at me, taking in my poor posture and no doubt haggard face, and his lips winged up. “You look more ill than you did when you were actually ill.”

I snarled. “I was about to thank you for these,” I began, tipping my chin at the glasses I held, “but now I’m not gonna.” He could go swivel.

His amusement not dimming, he drank from his mug. “Did you take painkillers?”

“Yes,” I pretty much grunted. “They haven’t kicked in yet.” Setting the glasses on the counter, I yanked open the dishwasher. “Stop smirking.”

“It’s not my fault you’re cute when you’re hungover and crabby.”

He didn’t say “cute” like it was a compliment. It was more of a patronizing statement. Like I was a bunny trying to squeeze through a small hole. Dick.

“Tell me Gypsy didn’t really kill a chick,” I pled.

“If I did, it would be a lie.”

I groaned and loaded the glasses into the dishwasher. “I’m just gonna pretend you’re full of shit.”

“All right, you do that.” He chugged down more coffee. “I’m going to take a shower. I ordered breakfast. It’ll be here soon. Try not to fall back asleep while I’m gone.”

I could give him no guarantees.

As usual, he showered and dressed in record time. Our food arrived shortly after he returned downstairs. Once we’d wheeled the trolley onto the patio, I slumped in my chair, my shoulders hunched. I learned he’d ordered me a full greasy breakfast, knowing it might help with the hangover.

I sniffed. “I’d thank you if you weren’t finding so much humor in my disposition.”

He shrugged, unbothered, the high and mighty bastard.

I managed to eat more than I’d thought I would. By that point, my stomach was beginning to settle and my headache wasn’t quite as aggressive. But I still felt like shit warmed up.

I rested my head on the cool table with a low, pitiful moan. A particular rumbly sound made my shoulders tense. “That better not be laughter I hear. Have a little compassion. It’s your job as my husband to feel sorry for me.”

“My job?” he echoed, still amused.

I straightened in my seat, narrowing my eyes. “You weren’t being judgy last night, no, you were all too happy to engage in drunk sex.”

“Hmm, I’ll bet you’ll never look at your hairbrush in quite the same way now that it’s been used to paddle your ass.”

I felt my cheeks flush. He was right on that. I’d tackled my hair with one of my other brushes this morning. “I’m not sure what bugs me more. That I let you paddle my ass, or that I didn’t realize you were actually using my hairbrush until after it was over.”

He chuckled low and deep. “Just be glad I didn’t use the side with the bristles. I thought about it.”

I felt my lips part. “You wouldn’t honestly do that.”

His brow slowly inched up. “Are you sure about that?”

No. No, I wasn’t. Because he was not the most predictable of lovers, and he had no issue doing things in bed that drove me nuts. “You’d really scratch my skin to shit like that?”

“Not so bad it caused you more pain than you like, but enough that it would mark you.” His eyes went hooded. “I like to see you marked.”

I knew that. Rough as he was, he bit me often and left fingerprint bruises. Truth be told, I liked looking at those marks. I just never told him. “Well, bristles are a no-no for me—let’s be clear on that.”

He only smiled, probably feeling confident that he could get me to agree to it when I was all fired up and desperate to come.

After he’d loaded the tray and wheeled it outside to be collected by a member of staff, he returned to me. “I have to leave for a few hours. I need to meet with Rafael before you and I head to my parents’ house for dinner.” He paused, studying my face, and then arched a brow. “You didn’t forget about it, did you?”

Yup. Totally. “Of course not.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “Hmm,” he said, all skepticism. “Before I leave, I want to show you something. Come with me.”

I followed him into the living room, where he snatched a bag from the floor near the sofa. I felt my brow crease. “What you got there?”

He held it out. “Something to keep you occupied while I’m gone.”

Sparing him a curious glance, I took the bag and peeked inside. My mouth parted in surprise when I examined the contents.

“I noticed you have plenty of other books by those authors.”

I met his gaze. “These novels haven’t been released yet.” I knew it, because I’d spent months impatiently waiting for them to be made available to purchase.

He shrugged. “As the owner of the publishing company, I can obtain early copies.”

Excitement fluttered in my stomach at the same time as tenderness bloomed in my chest. “You can’t know how psyched I am right now. The book bug in me is mentally jumping for joy.” I flashed him a bright smile. “Thank you.”

“You don’t need to thank me.”

“Tough. Just did.” I set down the bag and locked my arms around him, pinning his own arms to his sides.

“What are you doing?”

“The book bug in me wants to hug you,” I said against his chest. “Man up and deal.” I felt his chin rub against the top of my head.

“I thought the term was ‘bookworm.’”

“I don’t like worms. Prefer bugs. And no, the two aren’t the same.” Finally, I released him. “Tell Rafael I said hi.”

“Not many people ask me to pass on their hellos to Rafael.”

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m not crazy pleased that you’re close buds with a criminal mastermind. But I figure, if he’s your friend, there must be some good in him. Nobody is one-dimensional, after all. But even if I didn’t feel that way, I’d still be nice to him for your sake.”

Pausing, I took a step back and picked up my bag. “Now, I have books to bury myself in. Please forgive the fact that I won’t remember you exist until you get home and interrupt my reading. It’s genuinely nothing personal.”

His lips hitched up for the briefest moment. “So noted.”

Looking up at the large, three-story Victorian manor later that day, I smiled. “I know I’ve said it before, but I love this house.” It boasted all the features I loved about this style of building—bay windows, a gabled roof, turrets, towers, stained glass, and a pretty porch.

As we walked up the path toward it, I cast Dax a sideways glance. “Did you live here throughout your whole childhood?”

“Most of it,” he replied. “Up until I was eighteen months old, we lived in a penthouse apartment. Obviously, I don’t remember those days.”

Looking at the upper windows, I nudged him. “Are you going to show me your old lair while we’re here? You never have before.”

His brow furrowed. “My old lair?”

“The room you used to sleep in,” I clarified as we climbed the porch. “The place I’m sure you debauched many teenage girls when you were just a teen yourself.”

“Debauched?” he repeated, his lips curling.

“Well, you debauched me plenty back when I was a teen.” Though not here.

Heat flared in his eyes. “I remember.” He pressed the doorbell.

It was Kensey who answered the door. Her mouth curving into a grin, she welcomed us both inside, dabbing a quick kiss on Dax’s cheek and then on mine. “Glad you could make it.” She gestured for us to follow her and then walked further into the house.

The first time I’d come here, I’d done a lot of gaping. The interior was as striking as the exterior. It had ornate lighting and high ceilings. There seemed to be a fireplace in pretty much every room. And the geometric terracotta floor tiles were beautiful.

As we strolled down the hallway, I let my gaze skim over the framed pictures on the walls—most were of Dax and his three siblings at different ages. “You were such a cute kid, Dax. But it isn’t fair that you don’t seem to have had a gawky phase—mine was horrendous.”

Kensey chuckled. “He takes after his father that way. No ugly duckling moments. They were swans from the day they were born.”

As she led us into the dining room, Blake looked up from his seat at the table. He rose and slapped Dax on his back as they exchanged hellos. His attention then zipped to me, and he offered me a warm, authentic smile that was at total contrast to the formal ones he used to flash me. “Addison, glad you could come.”

“As if I’d miss out on Kensey’s cooking,” I said, my lips kicking up.

I still wasn’t certain what made him change his attitude toward me. I’d asked Dax, but he’d only said I won Blake over.

While father and son talked business, I helped Kensey carry the plates and drinks to the table. She and I each then took a seat beside our respective husband.

Across from me, she leaned forward to get a better look at the intricate dragonfly on my arm. “Caelan mentioned he gave you a tattoo,” she said, a proud glint in her eye. “My boy’s good. He did some for me, too.” She turned both her sparsely inked arms this way and that, giving me flashes of them.

One caught my eye, and I pointed at it. “That quote. I know that quote. It’s from one of my favorite books. You read Nina Bowen?”

She started in surprise. “I do.”

I put a hand to my chest. “I won’t lie, I love her. I have a major crush on her fabulously creative brain.”

Her lips tipped up. “Dax told me you’re a big reader. He says you have more books than I do.”

Chewing on food, Blake snorted. “That can’t be possible.”

“Oh, it’s possible,” Dax told him, cutting into his salmon.

A slow blink from Blake. “You’re serious?”

“Deadly. You should see the size of her bookcase. It’s even bigger than Mom’s.”

Blake shook his head, clearly doubtful.

“It is huge,” I conceded, lifting my cutlery. “I adore it.”

“It has rails with sliding ladders.” Dax ate a chunk of salmon. “There’s hardly any spaces on the shelves. Addison has amassed one hell of a collection of books.”

“I’m not seeing the problem,” I said, raising my shoulders.

“No, neither am I,” Kensey cut in.

Blake slid her a quick look. “You would say that. Reading is an addiction for you—plain and simple.”

Kensey flicked up a challenging brow. “And?”

With another snort, he resettled his gaze on me. “How’re your parents doing?”

“Fine.” I scooped up a forkful of lime rice. “My dad says you two confer regularly over whether you think this marriage could be on the rocks.”

Blake eyed me, clearly doubtful. “I’m not sure why he’d say that. In fact, I’m quite sure he wouldn’t have. You’re calling my bluff.”

I smiled. “Am I?”

Blake looked at his son. “Is she?”

“I don’t know.” Dax lifted his glass and took a sip of his water. “But you probably do confer with Dane.”

Blake scoffed. “I have far better things to do than gossip about your marriage.”

“And yet, you’re very likely still doing it,” Dax hedged.

His mouth curving, Blake sliced off a chunk of salmon. “He likes you, you know. He just doesn’t like that he likes you. He’s determined to loathe you, as a matter of fact. But he’s struggling with it.”

I heaved a tired sigh. “I think it’s all so dumb.”

Kensey nodded, her mouth full.

“When you have kids of your own, you’ll understand his struggles,” Blake told me.

I shook my head. “No, even then, I really don’t think I will.”

Again, Blake cut his gaze to his son. “You will.”

“Yeah, I will,” Dax agreed.

Lifting my glass, I cast my husband a sideways glance. “I’d like us to get along with whoever our children’s choice of partner happens to be.”

“I’ll get along with them just fine.” Dax dipped a small slice of salmon in his sauce. “I’ll simply never for a moment make them feel welcome.”

I frowned. “I don’t see how the two can go together.”

“They will. You’ll see.”

Yeah, I really didn’t think so, but whatever.