Not Husband Material (Billionaire's Contract Duet 1)

“You aren’t going to control me. That’s not what I signed up for.”

His massive frame blocked the doorway. “I got home and you weren’t here. I didn’t expect my wife to roam the streets of New York alone. Yeah, it pissed me off. But that’s no reason for you to sleep in here. Stop unpacking your stuff.”

I laughed. “See, this is something we don’t know about each other.”

“That you have a wicked temper?”

“No, that you think sex can fix all problems.”

“It can’t?” He looked genuinely stunned. “I want you in my bed. I can turn that anger into something productive for you.”

“Not tonight you can’t.” God, why was I picking a fight with him? Was I really that upset I had scared him? Or was it his tone? His arrogance?

“I don’t want you to sleep in the guest room.” He cleared his throat. For a second I

believed it was difficult for him to say those words. I was pushing him to ask for something he expected me to deliver on my own.

“Then stop treating me like one of your properties. Stop treating me like you own me.” I pulled my toothbrush from my floral overnight bag and stormed into the bathroom.

I looked up in the mirror as I brushed my teeth. Jeremy stood behind me. His eyes were dark and intense. He made me shiver, but I wasn’t falling for that smoldering stare. Not this time. I didn’t leave Newton Hills to be his call girl. I wasn’t a for-hire wife.

I spat into the sink and splashed my face with water.

If I gave into his bedroom eyes every time he wanted me, he’d lose respect for me. And damn it, I’d lose respect for myself. I hadn’t negotiated away my soul when I married him. Maybe I should put that in writing.

I twisted the faucet handle and looked up.

He was gone. I pivoted. The guest room was empty. I tiptoed to the door and pressed my ear against the cool surface. I held my breath, concentrating to listen. The door on the other side of the hall closed quietly.

I stood tall and pulled my shoulders back. Tonight, my husband was going to have to sleep alone. And I was going to convince myself I had won an important battle.

19

Jeremy

I flipped through every channel I had. Twice. Three times. The projections for spring training weren’t enough to distract me. I tried to focus on what the commentators had to say about the pitching recruits, but baseball was the last thing on my mind. I finally turned off the TV>

I stared at the ceiling. I threw off the comforter and ambled to the master bath. Which was better: hot or cold water? I took a shower. I shaved. I brushed my teeth again. There was no way I was going to fall asleep like this. Damn it. Evie was in my head. She had gotten under my skin. And apparently, the woman caused massive insomnia.

I opened the bedroom door and listened outside of Evie’s room. It was quiet.

I walked to the kitchen. After the investment meeting and then the fight with Evie I hadn’t eaten. It was my last hope for getting some sleep. I rummaged through the fridge. I settled on making a cheese and bacon omelet.

Why had I spent the last half of my day embattled with two women? My day had started off spectacularly. The morning in the honeymoon suite seemed as if it had happened a week ago. I was hungover enough to think that every morning with Evie could start the same way. We could fuck each other breathless and then go on to live separate lives all day.

I wasn’t prepared for pushback. I wasn’t ready for a fight. And I wasn’t ready to let her out of my bed.

I placed a carton of eggs on the counter. The fridge automatically subtracted the number I had removed and added them to the running grocery list. If I wanted, I could have the replacements by tomorrow.

The frying pan was in a low cabinet. I crouched for the expensive French set before gathering the bacon. The fridge chirped with another grocery item. I grumbled as I started the stove and watched the blue flame flicker.

I rotated to the kitchen island and began to whip the eggs and cream together. My eyes hit the box sitting on the counter. I stopped what I was doing.

My stomach growled and I knew I needed to make this omelet. The box didn’t matter. How and why I stopped to get it after work seemed even less important.

The bacon splattered in the pan, and I added another strip.

“Hi.”