34. You’re Getting to Be a Habit with Me

34

YOU’RE GETTING TO BE A HABIT WITH ME

Maeve

I’m kneeling on the grass, wearing cut-off shorts and a black T-shirt that says, “Make Art, Not Hard-Boiled Eggs,” while sniffing a lavender bush. It’s a candid shot of me at the lavender farm in Darling Springs, taken a few years ago on our Big Adventure there. In the corner of a photo, a black-and-white hound of some sort is looking at me. I’m petting his head as I sniff the flowers.

“When did you take this?” I ask, my brow furrowed. I don’t remember him taking the picture. I remember the farm dog though. His name is Hudson, and the owner of the farm—Ripley Addison—and I talked about his rescue for a while. She even recommended the organization if I was looking for a pet. I wish I could have a dog. My apartment’s a bit small though.

I shake off the dog dreams and turn to Asher, adding, “This photo.” So he knows what I’m talking about.

“When we were there,” he says easily .

“No, I mean…I don’t remember you taking it,” I say, glancing at him, confused.

He shrugs, turning away to make coffee. “Must have sneaked it in,” but now he sounds a little evasive.

I hold up the frame again, inspecting the one he must have set on the kitchen counter last night. Usually, I’m the one taking selfies or dragging him into them.

“So, like, a drive-by shot?” I joke, but I feel unsettled.

He fiddles with some lever on the fancy coffee machine. Maybe it’s an espresso machine, now that I think of it, with all these knobs and levers.

“Yeah, exactly.”

“And you had it framed? Like the one on the nightstand?” I ask. I noticed that picture of me in my Quick-Draw Maeve shirt when I woke up. But why am I so focused on this photo here? Oh, maybe because it’s easier than talking about what happened last night. In his home. Now our temporary pretend marital home. When we indulged in all the things.

I can still hear him saying spit on it .

I can still feel how aroused I was from that filthy command.

He turns around, brow furrowed. “For the news crew. I wanted it to be believable.”

Right. Of course. I don’t know why I thought it might be for another reason. How stupid of me. I did the same thing with our wedding shots.

“It’s great,” I say cheerily, despite the knot forming in my chest. I don’t want him to think I don’t like it. “It’s really thoughtful.”

“So were yours.” The words feel so…false. Like two people tiptoeing around each other. Like we had a fight, an d now we’re being overly polite to avoid breaking something fragile.

When I woke a little while ago, the bed was empty. He’d probably been up for hours. I threw on a sweatshirt and wandered downstairs to find him making egg-white omelets and saving some for me. Now, he’s brewing coffee. I don’t even like coffee that much. I thought he knew that. But I’m not about to complain. I’m a guest, after all.

That’s it. That’s why I feel so weird. It’s always awkward to be a guest in someone’s home, even when that someone is your best friend—or more? It feels like when I visit Aunt Vivian or when Josie invited me to her mom’s house one time after college. Everyone was lovely, but I felt so out of place. Maybe because I don’t even have a family home to go to.

And now I’m standing here, feeling like I don’t know how to behave with Asher after last night. Our tryst in Vegas was one thing—it was practically chaste by comparison. Last night was entirely different. We were drenched in orgasms. We were naked. We were shameless. We crossed all sorts of lines and yet held back at the same time with that technical no-touching rule—intimacy veiled by a boundary. But I need boundaries or I’ll fall into old patterns—clinging, needing, holding on too tight. The way Gideon said I was with him. And I can’t do that with Asher. I have to let go of people…like I was forced to do with my parents.

My chest squeezes uncomfortably at the reminder, then aches with memories of them. Back when they were happy. When she was well, when he was the man madly in love with his wife. When no one was sick, or dying, or heartbroken. But if I cling too hard to those memories, I’ll get lost in them, and we have a show to put on today .

Focus on the present.

I wander out of the kitchen, feeling Asher’s gaze on me. It’s subtle, like he’s watching me from the corner of his eye as I move through the house. Maybe he wants to say something, but he doesn’t. I pretend not to notice, walking toward the living room where I stop in front of another frame he must have placed here last night. It’s me, tossing my graduation cap in the air, celebrating my studio arts degree. This one makes sense. I remember him taking it.

But as I keep wandering, I find other shots—me huddled in mountains of jackets while in our room at the ice hotel and a shot of me in the tree tent, reading a book in the sleeping bag. I’m not saying I should remember every photo taken of me, but these? I don’t remember them at all. Does Asher make a habit of snapping candids of me?

It’s like finding out a friend speaks another language and you never knew. Has photography always been his secret language and I never noticed?

I’d better find out, especially since the TV crew will be here later today. I definitely should know these things about my husband.

I march back into the kitchen, setting my hands on the counter. “Photography’s a hobby of yours?” I ask, but before he can respond, the smell of cinnamon and nutmeg hits me. Does he put those spices in his coffee? Because I hate to break it to him, but even yummy spices won’t make mud taste better.

He looks over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised. “Why are you asking?”

“I figured it’s something I should know before the crew arrives. Like…it’s a hobby of yours, right? Like the Lego pl ants?” I gesture vaguely. “I mean, you have all these pictures, so…”

His shoulders bunch up as he fiddles with a lever on the machine. He looks…tight. Like he could use a massage. My fingers itch to touch him, to rub the tension out. I’m good with my hands. They’re strong. I could help. I want to help. I take a few steps toward him, already imagining my hands on his shoulders—but then I stop myself. Would that be too much? Too emotional? Too interested? Too clingy?

Fuck you, Gideon.

I drop my hands.

“It’s not a hobby,” he says, and I shake my head, feeling even more confused. What’s happening here? Why do I feel like I’m missing something? I shouldn’t press—he might think I’m trying too hard. Or that I’m not respecting our marriage-of-convenience boundaries.

“Well, you’re good at it,” I say, cheery, since that’s nice. I can be nice without being too much. “Did you see the wedding pictures I put up?”

“I did. Last night,” he says, cool and in control. “That was smart of you.”

Smart. Because this is a sham marriage. The unspoken question lingers longer in the air: Was last night a mistake, then?

Asher turns away from the gleaming espresso machine and hands me a mug. It’s my favorite one. The one that says, “I’m a Fucking Ray of Sunshine.”

I blink down at the chai latte he’s offering me, my eyes widening. “You…you made me a chai latte?” I ask, amazed. I had no idea he had barista skills.

He shrugs again, this time with a hint of a smile. “Well, my wife really likes them. Isn’t that something a husband ought to do?”

The warmth of the mug seeps into my hands and under my skin. Asher learned how to make a chai latte for me. If I’d done that for him, Gideon would have said it was too much. But I love the too-much-ness of this.

Something shifts inside me. There’s so much I want to say—that I love the way he’s noticed these things about me, that I love how he touches me, that I love the way he thought to take photos of me when I wasn’t looking, like I’m someone worth capturing.

But I can’t. I won’t ruin this temporary thing with too many feelings. Instead, I take a sip and sigh happily. “It’s the best I’ve ever had.”

“Yeah, right,” he says dryly.

“It is,” I insist.

“Thanks.”

For a moment, the tension loosens, and for the first time today, it feels like we’re both being wholly honest—even if it’s just about a drink.

I hold the mug a little tighter. “Asher, the photos are great,” I say, meaning it. But there’s so much more left unsaid as I drink the rest of it while he downs his coffee.

“I should get ready. They’ll be here soon,” I say, looking toward the door when my gaze catches on a new reflection. Curious, I make my way over.

My heart climbs into my throat. He hung my new mirror. The one I set on the plant table the other night since I didn’t want to be presumptuous. And he hung it exactly where I had imagined it would go. “Asher,” I say quietly, more emotion in my words than I’d expected, but I am so damn touched. I try to clear it away, raising my voice as I turn toward the kitchen. “You hung the mirror. ”

He leans against the doorframe, tilting his head my way. “Because my wife’s art should have a place of honor.”

Oh, right. Sure. For the camera crew. Of course it’s for the crew. I fasten on a smile. “Yes. Thank you.” I take another sip to cover up the funny feelings in my chest—something warm mixed with a familiar worry. But it’s one I ought to ignore. “Anyway, I’d better shower and all that. And then later I need to meet my agent for a drink. She texted earlier. Some new opportunities.”

He nods to the staircase. “I’ll leave you to it.”

The implication is clear. He won’t come upstairs and find me in the shower like I did to him last night. And my heart feels a little heavier for it.