Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 120475 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 602(@200wpm)___ 482(@250wpm)___ 402(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120475 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 602(@200wpm)___ 482(@250wpm)___ 402(@300wpm)
Now that it’s done and Bane’s being all, well, Bane, I feel giddy on exhaustion and accomplishment.
“Come on.” I pull back and grab his hand. “I need wine. And a lot of it, but I don’t have any in the house. You’re driving ‘cause I’m too tired.”
“It’s two in the morning.”
“Well then you better find a 7-Eleven that’s open 24 hours. I’m getting my shoes.”
Fifteen minutes later, we’re in the car, and I’m bouncing my bare feet against the dashboard, drumming out a tune that only exists in my head while humming a ridiculous operatic rendition of Elmo’s World. Bane is gripping the wheel like he’s regretting every life decision that brought him here.
“You’re insufferable,” he mutters, but there’s no real heat to it.
“And yet, here you are. Enabling my bad behavior.” I poke his bicep. “That makes you my accomplice. My ride-or-die. My partner in crime.”
His sigh is long-suffering, but I see the twitch of his lips. “I am neither riding nor dying.”
“Well, you’re certainly no fun.”
He turns onto a quiet road leading to the gas station, fingers flexing on the steering wheel. “And what part of this is fun, exactly?”
“The part where I get wine and we create a beautiful, spontaneous memory.” I flutter my lashes. “We are butter together, Bane. Soft, rich, and sinful.”
Bane exhales hard, like he’s praying for patience. But I see the corner of his mouth tilt upward.
Inside the 7-Eleven, I make a beeline for the sad little wine selection. I grab a bottle of something that looks like it was brewed in a bathtub and possibly banned in several states. Then I hold up another, squinting at the label.
“Red or white?” I ask.
Bane, looming behind me like a very judgmental shadow, eyes the selection like he’s witnessing a crime. “That’s not wine. That’s regret in a bottle.”
“That’s what makes it fun,” I declare, thrusting both bottles toward him. “Choose our fate.”
“I refuse.”
“Too late, you’re involved.” I shove the red at him. “This one pairs well with dreadful decisions.”
He holds it like it might explode. “It’s three-dollar wine.”
I place a hand over my heart. “I never said we were going classy.”
After paying, we head back to the car. I twist off the cap before we even get the doors closed, take a long, dramatic swig, then smack my lips. “Mmm, notes of desperation and a hint of despair.”
Bane looks at me like he’s reconsidering our marriage. “Where to now?”
“Empty parking lot. We need music and ambiance.”
“Ambiance,” he repeats, deadpan.
“Exactly. We’re making memories, baby.”
He stares at me for a long moment, then—because he is, in fact, my ride-or-die—puts the car in gear and drives.
Five minutes later, we’re parked under the dim glow of a flickering streetlight in some abandoned lot. I kick my feet up on the dash again, wine bottle in my lap, and scroll through the radio until I find something appropriately vibey—which turns out to be an ‘90s power ballad.
“You gonna drink, or are you just my designated brooder?” I nudge Bane with the bottle.
He takes it, eyes me warily, then—shock of all shocks—he actually takes a sip. A small one. Like a man who just licked a poison dart frog.
I gasp. “Holy shit, look at you! Corrupting yourself one sip at a time.”
He hands the bottle back like it personally offended him. “It’s vile.”
“It’s freedom.” I take another deep swig and drape myself dramatically across the seat. “You, Bane Blackwood, are experiencing a moment with your wife.”
He shakes his head, looking at me like he can’t decide whether to put me in a straight jacket or kiss me. Probably both.
I grin, throwing my head back against the seat, letting the music wash over me. “You know,” I say, swirling the bottle in my hand like it’s a fine vintage, “I used to think happiness was this elusive, mythical thing. Like Bigfoot or a healthy relationship. But right now, sitting here with you, drinking awful wine in an even worse parking lot?” I sigh contentedly. “I think I finally get it.”
Bane doesn’t say anything, but his hand reaches out, slipping over mine. Warm. Solid. Steady.
And for the first time in forever, I feel... light.
The music hums, the stars blur, and I think—just for tonight—I don’t need to outrun anything. I can just be.
FORTY-TWO
April
MOIRA
Kira and I have lunch plans, but first, I want a reaction. A look. A well-placed, growled-out fuck from the man currently lurking somewhere in our apartment.
Bane is a lot of things—tall, broody, criminally good at ruining panties—but observant? Not always. Not about little things.
But he notices me. I know he does. He worships me. Other than that little blip last month with the week in bed, everything’s been going great with this whole marriage thing. Most days, I still can’t fucking believe I’m somebody’s wife.
Bane really does seem to want me here. And not just because he has to or because I’m an obligation he got tricked into.