Perfect Grump (Bad Chicago Bosses)

The fish that emerges from the shimmering waters is huge, flapping its tail so hard Nick goes into caveman hunter mode. I let go when I realize I’m in the way.

“Wow. What is that thing?”

“Dinner,” he says with a wink.

“What? We can’t kill it.”

He stares at me. “What do you think fishing is?”

“Put it back!” I urge, rubbing his arm.

He continues struggling with the rod and reel, but the monster fish has left the water.

“Can’t leave the hook in its mouth,” he says. “Goddamn. This thing must be over ten pounds. Can you get a picture before I send it home?”

I grab my phone and snap a few pics of Nick removing the hook from the sea beast with his million-dollar smile. It flops like it’s break-dancing on the sand. He shoves it back under the waves, where it disappears.

“That could have been a feast. You’re welcome.” He shakes his head.

“Sorry.” I smile at him.

“I’m joking, darling. You don’t eat bonefish.”

“Why?” I stare back at the ocean, where I swear the fish leaps up one more time in gratitude before splashing down.

“Too bony. They taste pretty shitty,” he says.

“You’re right about one thing—this is relaxing. Reminds me of driving.”

Later, we do a dinner cruise, sailing into a magnificent red sunset.

It’s the start of an otherworldly two-week honeymoon that drifts by way too fast. It’s hard to believe this is my life, and harder every time someone stops, stares, and recognizes the Nicholas Brandt, complete with Reeserella.

Apparently, The Chicago Tea has a bigger circulation than I thought.

We make it to Daytona to see the races. We also swim with dolphins, explore the islands, and go to a conservatory for injured turtles where Nick drops a donation so big it makes me shed a tear.

My first trip snorkeling is scary at first, but he’s with me. It’s okay. He never lets go of my hand until I’m good and ready. He even buys a special camera for pictures when we visit an underwater Jesus statue just off Key Largo.

Our days are filled with museums, conservatories, nature, dream beaches, and wonders I never imagined.

Our nights are filled with so much sheet-ripping sex it leaves me boneless and amazed. His stamina will always be legend.

When our last night comes, I can’t believe it.

We watch tightrope walkers, bag pipers, and banjo players perform at Mallory Square while the sun dips over the sea.

Nick grabs my hand and leads me to a street vendor where he buys two hulking bags of cloud candy.

“Two?” I do a double take.

He pulls pink fluff out of the bag, and I eat from his fingers.

“One for now, one for later.” We stroll the square collecting souvenirs and head back to the beach house.

I dump our loot on the coffee table in the living room, shuddering at the thought that I’ll have to pack it before the night ends.

“Should we hit the beach one last time?” Nick asks, mischief in his eyes.

I smile. Heat pulses under my cheeks, and I wonder if my head has room for more beautiful memories.

“Sure thing. Just let me change,” I tell him.

I slip on a bikini Nick bought me our second day here. Of course, it’s more string than fabric so I haven’t worn it yet. It’s definitely an eyeful for his enjoyment—not that I mind.

When I step out of the bathroom, he’s in dark-blue trunks, holding a beach towel and the open bag of cotton candy we didn’t finish at the street fair. His eyes drop to my chest and linger.

He swallows.

“You finally wore it for me.”

I bite my lip.

He steps toward me, closing the space between us. Lacing his fingers through mine, we step out the back door and pad across the warm white sand. He drops the towel and cotton candy far enough away so it won’t get wet.

I leave him behind, running into the undulating waves.

Laughing, he treads water, catches me, and pulls me to his broad chest. He rests his hands on my hips and I close my arms around his waist.

My eyes fall to his lips.

“Water’s still warm,” he says.

“Whatever will we do?” I tease.

He takes my mouth in answer, seizing my bottom lip with his teeth.

I move my hands down his chest.

He unties the bikini top and tosses it on the shore. His hands move from my hips to my breasts, thumbs circling my nipples.

It isn’t enough. It never is with him.

My head falls back with a sigh, and Nick Brandt does what he’s always done best.

Worship me.

He makes me believe—every single time—that I’m truly something precious in his eyes.

He kisses down my neck, my clavicle, marching down until his mouth catches my areola.

God.

He sucks, nips, and lavishes.

Moaning, I slide my hands under his waistband and cup his firm ass.

He picks me up with a low growl, carries me to shore, and lays me on the waiting towel.