Wild Side (Rose Hill, #3)(44)

Plus, all it took was one glance for me to see that while Rhys wasn’t battling the full erection he had earlier, the front of his pants was still looking thick. He busted me staring at his lap, and I was grateful for the cover of darkness so he couldn’t see just how hot my cheeks flushed. Needless to say, I quickly found something very interesting out the window.

Oh, I’ve decided.

Just remembering the way the words came out—full of so much promise—had me crossing my legs to press down on an unwelcome throb.

I hadn’t set out to taunt him. He’s just so…smug. So sure of himself. So perfectly in control all the time that flustering him has become my new favorite pastime. It’s in those moments that I get a glimpse of passion from him.

The low hum of the TV drifts from the living room, a sure sign that Cora, Ford’s daughter, is still awake after babysitting Milo for the night.

Reaching down, I hook a finger under each stiletto heel in turn—they’ve been trying to kill me all night long—and fling them into the front closet with a vengeful toss. When my bare feet hit the floor, I groan and let my eyes flutter shut.

“Sore feet?” Rhys’s deep timbre startles me.

“Jesus Christ. You’re like a massive ninja sneaking up behind me. It makes no sense.”

He’s about to respond when a cheerful prow prow prow noise draws our attention. And there’s Cleocatra, gunning for Rhys like he’s her best friend. She presses her forehead against his slacks, her tail curling around his calf as she rubs herself against him like a stripper on a pole.

I giggle. “She loves you.”

“The feeling is not mutual,” he grumps, standing frozen as he stares down at her.

I bend at the waist and stroke the top of her head, getting a few purrs out of her, though she never stops circling Rhys. “Cleo, I’m the one who rescued you. A little gratitude wouldn’t hurt.”

“Yeah, cat. Like Tabby instead.”

I roll my eyes. Disliking Cleocatra is impossible. Rhys is just…

I blink as I look back at my husband. Rhys has a way of shutting everyone out. I’m not sure what it is, but something about the moment makes me wonder if the man I married even knows how to let someone love him.

He’s not overt in the ways he shows his affection. It’s all sullen acts of service or restrained thumb strokes to show support. And if I think too hard on it, it makes me sad. So, in an effort to escape the big, overwhelming man that I know little about, I pad through the foyer and into the living room.

Cora lounges on the couch with a sketch pad against her legs and a pencil in her hand while professional wrestling plays on the TV.

“Hey,” she says quietly, giving me a soft smile from beneath the heavy black fringe of her bangs.

“Hey,” I flop down on the couch beside her feet like a dead starfish and let my eyes fall shut before making an exaggerated snoring noise.

“How’d it go?”

A tired smile spreads across my face. “It was perfect.” And I’m not lying. It was perfect. The ceremony. The reception. The guests. Aside from the fact that I married a man who shares nothing and mystifies me at every turn—something I try not to fixate on because marrying him was the lesser of two evils—everything was great. “How did it go here? Milo was all right?”

“Yeah. He’s awesome. We played with Cleo, and he introduced me to Erika, which was cool.”

I snort. Only Cora wouldn’t be put off by a plant named after a kid’s dead mom. Rosie calls her little storm cloud, and I can see why. “Perfect,” I mumble.

Rhys walks past with a quiet, “Hi, Cora. Thanks again for your help tonight. Your dad and Rosie are waiting outside.”

“No problem,” she replies, an unusual hint of shyness in her voice, as she pulls a pencil case off the table and packs her things.

When I can hear Rhys moving around in the kitchen, Cora leans closer and whispers, “Is getting married as exhausting as it looks?”

I snort and roll my head along the back of the couch to look at the teenager. “Girl. Have you met men? Everything about them is exhausting.”

She smiles down at her sketch pad with an amused shake of her head. “That’s fair.”

It occurs to me that I should act more excited. More…I don’t know…in love? What will she tell Ford and Rosie when she gets in that car?

“I’m just blissed out. A dream of a day.” I’m impressed with how easily I say it. My brain is a twisted fucking place to be, talking about marrying Rhys Dupris like this.

“I mean, yeah. Can’t blame you. Have you seen your new husband?” Her head tilts as though she could see around the corner and into the kitchen. My lips press together to hold back a chuckle. Then I watch a splotch of red take shape on her cheek as she slowly turns to face me, mortification painting her features as though the words just slipped out. “I’m sorry.”

I smile kindly. A watered-down representation of the way I want to just throw my head back and howl.

“Nah”—I wave her off casually—“don’t even worry about it.” I nod my head toward the television in a desperate attempt to save her from this conversation. “What are we watching?”

She shrugs. “Wrestling. Well, a replay. I’m weeks behind. Had to start from where I left off, so I don’t miss out on the storyline.”