His eyes narrowed, his whole face feeling stern. And judging by the goose bumps he watched break out over her skin, she felt his gaze, too.
“That’s my right, isn’t it? You being my woman, I can stare at you all I want.”
She laughed. “Your woman? I don’t know where you came from with that idea—”
“New York.”
“—but I belong to no one.”
“That’s not what you were saying—pardon me, screaming—six months, thirteen days, and four hours ago. In fact, I’m certain you kept chanting, ‘I’m yours, I’m yours, please, Grant, take me, I’m yours.’”
That made her bite her lip again, and she glanced around. Clearly assessing if anyone in the bar could hear their discussion.
Good.
He was getting to her, and he wondered if she could see how tightly wound he was for her. He hoped everyone heard him, because he wasn’t keeping his wife—or what he wanted from her—a secret. And to answer her previous question, yes, he was going to stare. Because good Christ, his wife was more beautiful than he remembered. Granted, last time he’d seen her was technically on their wedding night on a cruise ship floating across the Caribbean.
He couldn’t help but examine every inch of her he could see. Comparing it to the memory he had of her. Six months ago he’d enjoyed the sight of Hannah’s sun-kissed skin in an itty-bitty bikini. He also knew exactly where she hid her tattoos. Now, he was staring her down in a dive bar in the middle of small-town Oregon, and she was in a black tank top and ripped jeans—all sexy badass. She looked harder. Tired. But still bright and gorgeous. Though he had a feeling she hadn’t smiled
in a while.
He couldn’t help but stare, because it was then, being face-to-face with her after all these months, that he knew why he’d fallen in love with her so quickly. And married her even quicker.
“What are you doing here?” she asked in a low tone, taking a step closer to the bar that separated them. Grant didn’t know if he imagined it, but he was pretty certain there was a longing in her eyes, and he hoped to God it was for him.
“I’m here for you,” he said honestly. “And baby, you’ve been tough to find. Hiding or not.”
She swallowed hard. He watched her throat work up and down. The busted glass on the floor crunched beneath her black boots as she slid just a little closer. She didn’t seem too concerned with cleaning up the bottle she’d dropped.
“I didn’t mean to surprise you,” he offered, glancing at the mess on the floor.
“Yes, you did,” she responded quickly in that snappy tone only she had. God, he missed that mouth. Especially when it was fiercely directed at him. Because the longer she mouthed off, the quicker her claws came out—and eventually those claws would be in his back while he was between her legs. Which was exactly where he intended to be by tonight.
“You’re not unhappy to see me,” he tried again. Rephrasing to see if she’d admit to wanting him. “Otherwise you would have told me to fuck off by now.”
“Fuck off,” she said quickly.
He grinned. Oh yeah, she missed him. And she’d be on him within the hour, at this rate. But she was keeping her voice low. Quiet, even. As if she didn’t want anyone to know about him.
“Well, do you want to show me around town? Maybe introduce me to your friends, Mrs. Laythem?”
“Stop calling me that. And no. You should leave.”
Oh, he could play this game, too. Fine, she was surprised to see him—he could give her that. But she was breathing hard and looking over his chest and mouth, and he knew what that look meant. She’d had it the first night he met her.
His vixen wife wanted him.
He just had to get her to admit it. Or drive her unease into irritation until she took out her aggression on him. Either way, it was a win for him.
“You know”—he leaned in, sticking his bottom lip out a little like a toddler would—“you keep whispering, and it makes me feel like you’re ashamed of me. That hurts, baby.”
She rolled her eyes again, and he grinned. Damn, he’d missed her. It had taken him only two weeks on a cruise he’d been suckered into going on by a friend in the first place to fall in love with her.
“Please. You’re not hurt,” she scoffed and crossed her arms beneath her incredible breasts. Which he would have appreciated more if her words hadn’t just delivered a swift jab of pain and anger.
“You better understand one thing right now,” he said quietly, placing his forearm on the bar. Keeping his eyes on hers, he said, “Don’t you dare think that what you pulled didn’t rip my heart out.”
She blinked a few times, clearly surprised. Good. Because he might be Grant Laythem III, heir to Laythem Inc., a Fortune 500 company, and, as of recently, sole heir to the entire estate. But she didn’t know that. Which was why he loved how she treated him. Like a man. A normal man. Some bum she’d met on a ship six months ago and fallen in love with, having no idea about his status or money or responsibilities of running his father’s company in New York.