Stealing Her (Covet 1)

“I’d like to think he’s into guys and won’t murder me when he wakes up from his coma.”

My smile was sad.

“And I’m sure he battled it every day, Izzy. I lasted a month. A damn month. At least you know who got the gift of self-control.”

I wrapped my arms around his neck. “Don’t forget, I’m the one who seduced you.”

“Don’t forget, I was a willing victim.” He smirked.

“Yeah, but I didn’t know that. You just stared.”

He threw his head back and laughed. God, I loved his laugh. “Izzy, I couldn’t form a coherent thought beyond ‘uh.’”

I loved that he admitted that to me, that he was this giant of a man, sexy as hell, and still vulnerable. “You make me laugh.”

“Someone should,” he countered. “Now, why don’t I keep cooking”—he looked over his shoulder—“this wonderful-looking spaghetti while you clean up, grab a glass of wine, and sit on the couch with a book.”

I stared him down. “Who are you?”

“Bridge Tennyson, the twin who gets that every woman should have the opportunity to sit at the end of the day with a duke and a good glass of wine.”

Julian had always made fun of my romance novels, saying they were like junk food for the mind.

Bridge was encouraging me to spoil my mind with fantasies and wine.

“Hmm, evil twin knows what a girl wants,” I teased.

He made a face. “Don’t even get me started on the sort of books I’ve seen on Mom’s coffee table, though.” His eyes raked me over. “Not a bad way to get some tips and tricks.”

My jaw dropped. “Are you telling me you read romance novels?”

“No.” He pointed his finger at me and laughed. “I’m telling you I skip to the good parts, do the necessary strategizing in my head, you know, like wondering if you could actually do that sort of thing at that angle, and then I store it in my head for future use. That’s not reading, sweetheart, that’s fucking research.”

I laughed so hard I had tears in my eyes. “You read romance novels.”

“Shhhh.” He clapped a hand over my mouth. “I admit nothing.”

I nipped at his hand and he jerked it back. “Bet I could get you to admit it.”

“Izzy . . .” His eyes narrowed as my gaze lowered.

“Hmm, maybe you should think about that while you cook, all the ways I’m going to get you to admit that deep down, you love romance.”

“I’m man enough to admit I love romance. Every woman should have it, and if a guy isn’t man enough to give it to her, he shouldn’t get to have a cock let alone be allowed to use it.” He shrugged.

“I think I like you, Bridge Tennyson.”

“Thank God. I was waiting to change my Facebook status . . .” He winked. “Seriously, go, I’ll finish cooking.”

“Okay.” On wobbly legs, I moved through the kitchen and then stopped. “Hey, I almost forgot to ask. How was work?”

He smiled so wide that I wanted to kiss him again. “It was good, we’re making great progress, I won’t bore you to tears, but it’s good, Izzy, real good. Though as good as it was, all I wanted was to come home to you.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He shook his head. “It gave me something to look forward to. Home . . .”

“Home,” I repeated. “Funny, I never thought about our apartment as home.”

He was silent. I could tell he wanted to say something against his brother, his jaw ticked like he was clenching his teeth. “I’m gonna . . .” I nodded toward the bedroom. “Try not to burn the apartment down.”

“No promises. I love a good bonfire,” he called back while I smiled the rest of the way into the bedroom.

It was perfect.

So perfect that I was terrified it was going to come crashing down around us in a fiery glory.

Chapter Forty

BRIDGE

“You ready for this?” Izzy sounded nervous as she clutched my hand in hers. I squeezed back. “I don’t know why I’m so nervous.”

“You look beautiful.” I kissed her hand. And she really did. I’d helped her out of that dress three times before finally relenting and letting her keep it on. It was a slip dress that barely covered her ass, ice blue, and so soft against her curves that I was almost jealous of the damn thing.

It got to hug her, caress her, tease her, while I had to wear a stupid designer tux picked out by a few editors at Vogue who in my opinion slipped several times when measuring me earlier that week.

“We’ve got this,” I whispered, pulling her into my arms and kissing her neck. “We’re a team, alright?”

I could sense the tension in her body. We were standing outside the restaurant where our rehearsal dinner was being held.

For the wedding the next day.

Where the world would think I was legally making her his.