My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon

“Ten-four,” he says to whoever’s on the other end of the radio. To me, he’s now casual and at ease. “You’re good, man. Have a great night.” He offers me a wave and continues on his patrol route around the garage while whistling a tune I’m unfamiliar with.

I can’t help but chuckle a bit at Deputy Do-Good thinking he was going to stop me from getting upstairs to my Abigail. But he has delayed me long enough. I jam the button for the elevator, willing it to hurry.

The elevator eventually lets me out on the top floor, and I approach Violet’s penthouse apartment, ready to break through the door.

It’s not until this very moment that I wish I hadn’t arrived with empty hands. Riding the bike, I couldn’t bring a bottle of wine or flowers and arrive with them in anything other than shambles, but I feel unprepared for what’s on the other side of the door.

Is Abigail waiting for me eagerly? Or angrily? Should I grovel or shove her up against the nearest flat surface and remind her how well we fit together?

I won’t know until I see her, so I knock. Ross opens the door, his jaw tight and his eyes hard, and instead of letting me in, he comes out into the hallway, pushing me back with a palm on my chest. Instinctually, I want to swat his hand away, but I deserve this if Violet was telling the truth. Ross needs to defend his sister, vet me, and question my intentions.

“Why are you here?” he spits out.

“You already know. This whole round two is unnecessary.” I might understand his right to do this, but that doesn’t mean I have to play along. “Violet interrogated me thoroughly and is, quite honestly, scarier than you. I passed her test, and we both know that’s good enough.”

He growls at my brutal honesty because he’s well aware that I’m right and equally because I’m not giving him the challenge he wants. For all his suit and tie persona, Ross Andrews would throw down with me at the slightest provocation. I respect that, his utter willingness to bleed, both himself and others, for his family. I’m the same way.

“Hurt her and I will torture you,” he grits out.

“Not kill me?” I ask with a fuck-off smirk.

He moves another inch closer, so close I can feel his breath on my cheek. “No, torture is pain, the second by second agony through your entire soul. Death will be what you beg for.”

He leans back, and I slow-clap his performance. “Well done. How many times did you practice that?” One second, he’s glaring at me and the next, he’s given me his back. I follow him into the apartment, where a group of people has hopped back from the door where they were presumably watching through the peephole and listening.

Oh! No peephole needed, I guess, because there’s a security screen television with a live feed of the hallway.

Of all the people staring at me, only one matters.

Abigail is standing off to the side with her shoulders back and those beautiful brown eyes locked on me. Questions swirl and nerves glitter in their depths, and I hate that I gave her any reason to doubt me, to distrust what we feel.

I rush her, my hands cupping her face to lift her jaw so I can devour her mouth. It’s been days, which might as well be an eternity for how much I’ve missed her. I steal her breath, replacing it with my own. “Mia rosa,” I murmur against her lips.

“I didn’t know if you wanted . . .” she tries to say, but I cannot stop tasting her.

“I did. I do. Always.” I finish her thought with my own as I lay tiny, sweet kisses along her jaw toward the shell of her ear. “Do you?” I whisper.

“Yes,” she moans. An answer, an urging for more, or both? I don’t know, but I take it as agreement and kiss her again.

From behind me, I hear a voice say, “Bravo! Keep going, keep it going, puh-leese.”

“Archie!” That was Violet for sure. “Hush, and maybe they’ll forget we’re here,” she whispers.

I press my forehead to Abigail’s, certainly not able to forget our audience now, though I fall into her smile once more and lay another soft peck to the edge of her lips to nudge it higher. Her smile blooms in response, and I feel like a god for being the cause of her returning joy.

“It seems Violet was right this time. I’m an asshole,” I tell Abigail as an apology. “I’ve been dying without you, mia rosa.” I have no shame and will admit to being weak for this woman and utterly destroyed without her.

She shakes her head. “I should’ve called or said something. This is on both of us.”