Every Little Piece of Me (Orchid Valley 1)

Except she looked just as stressed last night when she was talking to her friend Abbi in the bar, and the dark circles under her eyes are the kind you get after weeks of not enough sleep, not after a sudden shock.

My jaw goes tight. “You’re still wearing his ring.”

She drops her hands and gapes at me. “You’ve had six months to mention we were married. Six months, and you haven’t made any effort to reach out to me, but you think that because you show up and tell me about some vows I don’t remember taking that I’m just going to . . . What is it that you expect me to do, Marston? Cancel my wedding? Tell Julian, Oops, turns out I’m already married?”

“For starters,” I say softly.

Her gaze drops to my left hand and her brow wrinkles. “You’re not wearing a wedding band.”

I blow out a breath. I’ve worn the brushed platinum band for six months, but on the flight to Atlanta, I decided to take it off. “I’m here to fight for you, not to ruin you. I’ll put it back on when you put on yours.”

“I . . .” She presses her palms into her desk and exhales slowly. “You’re sure it was real? Like, whatever we did, it was a legal marriage?”

I pull the copy of our marriage certificate from my back pocket and hand it to her. I knew something wasn’t right when I got that invitation, and I came prepared.

She stares at the document. “This is real?”

“It’s a copy, but yes. It’s real. We’ve been married for six months.”

She laughs, but the sound is more maniacal than joyful. “And you thought it was totally normal for your wife to not so much as speak to you during that time? Seriously?” She flicks her gaze up to my face. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I assumed you regretted it.” I was afraid if I contacted you, you’d ask for a divorce. “If I’d realized . . .” I blow out a breath. “I wish I’d known.”

“Yeah, you and me both.” She squeaks, her eyes back on the paper. “This is a mess.”

“It doesn’t have to be.” Standing, I open the box from Aunt Lori and unwrap a pile of breakfast cookies. Back when Lori worked for the Knoxes, she’d sometimes bake these for the girls, and they were always Brinley’s favorite. When I told my aunt I was coming to Orchid Valley for a visit, she insisted on sending cookies for Brinley. I pluck a napkin from the box and pile three cookies on it before sliding it across the desk. “You look exhausted. These might help.”

“Of course I look exhausted,” she mutters. “I didn’t sleep.”

“Up late talking to the fiancé about your marital conundrum?” I know venom drips off the word fiancé, but I don’t care. She’s my wife.

“No.” She shakes her head, sighs, then reaches for her latte. She pops the lid off, smells it, then whimpers. “That’s sugar.”

“Butterscotch. Your favorite.”

She worries her bottom lip between her teeth. “Since I didn’t drink butterscotch lattes in high school, I’m guessing this is something I told you in Vegas?”

It shouldn’t hurt that she doesn’t remember. It’s not as if she intentionally forgot. Nevertheless, my stomach muscles contract at the blow, and I have to clear my throat before I can talk. “After we left the chapel, the sun was rising, and I took you to breakfast. You asked the server if she could make you a butterscotch latte. You said it was your favorite because it reminded you of when you were little and your mom would sneak you butterscotch candies to keep you quiet when your dad was on an important phone call.”

She scoops foam onto her index finger and brings it to her mouth, moaning softly as she sucks it off.

I can’t take my eyes off her. “Are you trying to turn me on because you want me to fuck you against that desk or because you want to torture me?”

A blush crawls up her neck and across her cheeks. “You can’t talk to me like that anymore.”

I circle the desk, take her hand, and pull her out of her chair. She stands and sways toward me. “Ah, but I can. And you know it.” I tuck a lock of her hair behind her ear. “You liked me talking to you like that.”

“Marston . . .” My name is a plea on her lips, and it twists my gut.

“I’ll stop.” Her eyes lift to meet mine, and I wait a beat, holding her gaze. “But only if you want me to. Not because you think I should.”

“What’s the difference?”

“You,” I whisper. “The difference is what you truly want versus what you think you should want.”

She turns away and steps toward the big window at the far wall of her office that overlooks Lake Blackledge. “I can’t think straight when you stand that close.”