“And the old boy’s still hale, hearty, and happy?”
“Oh, yeah, he’s doing fine.” Ryan smiled. “He’s crazy about Devon. And believe it or not, she’s gotten fond of him, now that she’s gotten to know him.”
“So, what happens when your attempt at matrimony ends a week from now? It is gonna end, isn’t it?”
Ryan downed half his drink. “Absolutely.”
“So, what’s Grandpa gonna say to that?”
“What can he say? I told him about the contract Devon and I signed, right from the start. I never lied to him, Frank. You know that.”
“Yeah, but he’s got to be hoping.”
“Sure. But he’s a pragmatist. He wanted me to try marriage and I did. If it doesn’t work...”
“C’est la vie, as they say in Brooklyn.”
Ryan laughed. “Exactly.”
“Well, you can always point out that it’s as much his fault as anybody’s. He didn’t really find you a proper wife, did he?”
“No,” Ryan said after a minute, “I suppose not.”
“There she was, a modern-day version of Miss Goody Twoshoes, all sweetness and light and oh-so-eager to please, and what happens? She turns out to be a nasty-tempered, cold-hearted, conniving bitch who looks hot but actually has all the sexual warmth of a refriger—”
Ryan reached for Frank so fast that after it was over, people around them couldn’t agree on what had happened first. All anyone was sure of was that one second two men were talking quietly and the next, the tall, handsome one shot to his feet, grabbed the heavier one by the collar and slammed him back against the bar so hard that it shook.
“Watch your mouth,” he snarled.
“Hey.” Frank’s mouth opened and shut like a fish’s. “Hey,” he squeaked, standing on the tips of his toes and clutching at Ryan’s hands, “what’s the matter with you?”
“That’s my wife you’re talking about, Frank. My wife! And you’d damned well better not forget it.”
“OK, man, OK. Just let go, will you?”
The two men stared at each other, Frank’s face red, Ryan’s stark white except for the deep, dark rage blazing in his eyes.
Slowly, Ryan’s iron-fisted grasp loosened. The darkness faded from his eyes and he let go of Frank’s shirt.
“Hell,” he mumbled.
Frank sank down onto his stool. The noise level around them picked up, then returned to normal.
Ryan sat down, too. His hand trembled as he lifted his glass to his lips and drained it dry. He put the empty glass down and looked at Frank.
“She’s my wife,” he said. “Devon is my wife. Do you understand?”
He was gone before Frank could answer, shouldering his way through the crowd, out the door and into the night.
Devon sat in the living room, an unopened magazine in her lap.
Another Friday night, she thought. Another evening of trying not to imagine Ryan out on the town with his bachelor buddy.
Devon frowned, put the magazine on the end table, and got to her feet. Not that it was any of her business. Whatever Ryan did had nothing to do with her. Except for a piece of paper with their names printed on it, he was as much a bachelor as his friend, Frank Ross.
The house was so quiet. She still hadn’t gotten used to that. Whenever Ryan wasn’t home at night—which was almost always—she found herself pacing from room to room. Sometimes, when she heard his key in the lock, her heart would begin to race and it was all she could do to keep from flying down the stairs—and...
But that was only natural. She’d never really lived alone. When she was growing up, she’d shared a succession of cramped apartments with Bettina. In boarding school, she’d shared a room with another girl and then, after she’d graduated, she’d gone halves on the rent of a furnished apartment that wasn’t as big as her entire bedroom was now.