Own Me

by Lexi Scott

  “Can you believe Enzo’s date?” I say, with a laugh, snuggling under the covers. “She was so hammered, I think before the wedding even started. She must’ve had a fifth of Patron on the way, right?”

  Adam shifts onto his back, putting one arm behind his head, and chuckles. “Yeah, Enzo didn’t seem too happy with her toward the end of the night.”

  I snort, and when I move my leg it brushes his, hairy and warm. A hot, sweet need bursts to life low in my body, but there’s nothing I can do about it.

  “I don’t think he cared all that much. Maren told me she caught them going at it in Deo’s shop during the reception. Gross. Enzo isn’t known for his high standards in women, though.”

  “Ah, I wonder if the caterer’s daughter would disagree with that,” Adam says with a conspiratorial laugh. He runs a foot along my calf. I’d think it’s just an accidental brush because the bed is so damn small, but the movement is slow. And he makes a soft sound in his throat, like a hum of pleasure.

  My scalp prickles. I have a hard time catching my breath, but I manage to ask, “What do you mean?”

  He rolls onto his side, and when he smiles, the little bit of light from the moon shines in and glints on his teeth. “I walked in on him and the blonde when I went to find my car keys.”

  “That little asshole!” I say, rolling to my side. Our bodies seem to pull to the center of the bed, toward each other.

  Our laughter in the darkness feels freeing and good, and makes me just bold enough to reach over under the blankets and hold my husband’s hand.

  He makes that low hum again and squeezes my hand, running his thumb over my knuckles and down each of my fingers. “It was a great day, though. You looked beautiful, Gen. You are beautiful.”

  His sweet, sleepy words make me flush hot enough to kick the covers off my feet. “Thanks, professor. You looked pretty dapper yourself.”

  His free hand caresses the side of my face with gentle pressure. “Thank you. For everything, I mean…you’ve turned your life upside down for me, and I won’t forget that.” His voice is low and has a rawness that feels so full of truth.

  I rub my cheek into his hand and close my eyes tight, wanting the way I feel in this moment to draw out long into the night. “You have to stop thanking me, Adam. How could I not with that proposal? And that ring. And…you.”

  “Good night, Gen.” He presses his lips to my forehead with a quick kiss, lets his hand slide from my face, disentangles our fingers, then turns his back to me to fall asleep.

  I want to tell him to roll back over. To kiss me. To make this a proper wedding night. But I’m so damn tired, and it feels right to settle in next to Adam for the first time ever, and just sleep.

  Chapter Ten

  Adam

  The dorms I lived in before Genevieve weren’t all that impressive, but I didn’t care. I was a college bachelor. My entire “kitchen” consisted of a hot plate, a medium saucepan, one fork, plate, knife, cup, and bowl, and so many takeout menus they made a mini-Torah when they were all scrolled together.

  Oh, and chopsticks.

  I had a set of pretty nice chopsticks because Li, the guy who lived next door to me, actually finished his thesis program and went back to Shanghai. He gave me some of his extra stuff, chopsticks included.

  That was all funny, I guess, when I was a single guy. But I’m a married man now.

  I look down at the plain silver band on my finger and wonder what the hell I got myself into. Marriage? Genevieve needed a man who could give her a nice house to live in. A man who could work a real job and bring in money so she’d have everything she needed.

  She shouldn’t have to deal with me and my sad chopstick collection.

  I circle the parking lot of the dorms for married students. I didn’t even know they existed until a few weeks ago. They’re less uniform than the general dorms. I guess maintenance lets up on the yards so the couples can do their own things. Some are neat and lined with flowers and tall grasses. Some look nearly abandoned. Ours is the last unit on the end, unit 708.

  “I like the door,” Genevieve says shyly.

  “It’s very red,” I observe.

  “I think red is a good luck color.” She hops out as soon as I pull in, running to the doorstep and using her key, fresh from the housing office, to push inside. I follow behind and grimace.

  “It’s a shithole.” I look around the two-room apartment. The first room is a tiny square. One half is supposed to be the living space, complete with a tiny closet. The other half is the dining/kitchen area. There is a wall of plain white cabinets, a stove, a refrigerator, and a small sink.

  Genevieve is flicking on every buzzing fluorescent light on her way to the tiny hall that has three more doors. One leads to a cramped, dark pantry. One leads to a bathroom with a mildew problem. The last one is the door to the bedroom.

  Our bedroom.

  She stands in the middle and puts her arms out, turning in a full circle.

  “It’s big!” Her voice echoes off the wall.

  “Until you get things in it,” I point out. I open the two closets and look at the sad wire hangers swaying from the crossbars.

  She heads to the window, parting the tattered blinds with her fingers and peeking out.

  “Adam. Look.”

  I come over and see what might be this dingy place’s one saving grace. “The AG department owns the land behind us,” I explain. That’s why we have cultivated gardens, neat rows of greenhouses, and some bird and butterfly sanctuaries. “This garden is supposed to be one of the best templates for a space that will attract honey bees.”

  Genevieve turns to me and smiles, loops her arms around my neck and pulls me close. “Bees? How about birds? This is all very interesting. Tell me more, husband.”

  My mouth goes dry. She slides up against me, and I have a hard time swallowing. The night of the wedding, she fell asleep before anything could happen. The next night, we camped out at her parents’ house again after a day full of paperwork and running around. We haven’t been alone or energized enough to bother with sex.

  Sex. With Genevieve.

  My wife.

  Or, at least, the woman I’m bonded with until she moves on to whoever her permanent husband will be. That thought makes intense jealousy flare through me, but I stomp it out. I care about her too much to let myself get too close.

  I kiss her gently on the lips and pull away, not ready for what that means just yet.

  “We have a ton of boxes to get in here. I guess we should get—”

  “Hey, lovebirds! Are we interrupting anything?” Cohen calls out.

  I try not to focus on how disappointed Genevieve looks and instead welcome her family.

  Cohen, Maren, Deo, Whit, Cece, and Enzo crowd into our doorway and living room.

  “Let me carry you over the threshold!” Deo yells. Whit is in his arms, screaming and laughing as she pounds on his chest.

  “You only do that when it’s your house, idiot,” she says, but she kisses him anyway.

  Damn it. I didn’t carry Gen over the threshold.

  Maybe she’s not into old-fashioned crap like that? I look at her, and she has her eyes trained on Whit and Deo. The look on her face is a sucker punch. I wish she’d never told me Deo had been her crush since childhood. I wish he wasn’t so damn romantic without even seeming like he’s trying.

  I wish I had thought to carry her—my wife—over the damn threshold.

  “Holy shit, this place is small as hell,” Enzo says, smiling a cocky smile as he runs his finger along a dusty windowsill and shakes his head. “Will you both fit?”

  “Shut up.” Cece smacks his arm. “It’s their first place. It’s going to be amazing, so stop being an asshole about it. Whit, Maren, Gen, come with me. We’re running to Target and Lowes. You have those gift cards, baby sister?”

  Genevieve nods, looking at me like she’s asking permission.

  For what?

  “It’s your place, too, Gennie! Yo
u and Adam both need things. Like lamps. And sheets. And curtains. And laundry baskets.” Cece rolls her eyes and shakes her head. “No one had time for gifts, but that was actually cool, because now you get to pick up everything you need right from the store instead of having to find room for ten blenders and a few Foreman grills. C’mon. We need to get going!”

  Cohen jerks a thumb toward the living/dining room window, and I see a Rodriguez moving truck parked outside. “I got the load of furniture Mom and Dad gave you guys. Though I’m not sure it will all fit in here.”

  “Did they go with the king bed?” Maren asks, putting her arm around Cohen’s waist and kissing his neck like it’s no big thing.

  Funny how Genevieve and I are the newlyweds who got to the place first, but the couples who’ve been here half the time have already seen twice as much action.

  Gen goes to the car and grabs her purse, then runs back in to pull me aside for a minute. “Um, what do you like?” she asks.

  “Like?” I have no clue what she’s asking.

  “You know, decorating-wise. Colors? Patterns? Do you like modern? Or are you more traditional?” Her eyebrows furrow low over her eyes, and she looks so adorably worried, it throws me for a second.

  “My dorm room had a navy blue comforter and one poster of Einstein. I’m not really good with decorating and stuff.” I drop my voice. “But I like you. I like how you think, and I like how your mind works. So you get what you like, and I’ll just be happy I didn’t have to go to the store with four strong, scary women.”

  She stands on her toes and presses her lips to mine, slowly, letting the kiss linger. My blood runs hot, like an acid continuously burning under my skin. The room recedes fast, and I put a hand on the small of her back, tugging her closer, ready to forget—

  “So, about the store?” Cece’s loud voice breaks the spell, and I pull back to see three guys and Cece glaring at me like I’m the big bad wolf and I’ve got Red in my arms.

  I want to say, I’m her husband, dammit. I’ll kiss her when and how I please.

  But there’s tempting fate, and then there’s just asking for a world class beat down. I make do with the knowledge that, when everyone else leaves, it will just be Genevieve and me, alone together.

  All night.

  As fast as the territorial pulse of testosterone raced through me, it fizzles away, replaced by a nervousness I shouldn’t feel. I’m not a virgin. Neither is she. We know each other. We like each other. I can’t look at her without imagining a million things I shouldn’t, even if I am married to her.

  “You okay, man?” Enzo asks like he hopes the answer is no. “You look a little pale.”

  We all watch the girls leave, then six cold, calculated male eyes turn back on me. “I’m cool,” I say just as a bead of sweat runs off my forehead and down my face. “I’m ready to get all moved in.”

  Cohen and Enzo stalk over to me, with Deo flanking the rear.

  “Look, man,” Enzo says between gritted teeth. “You seem nice enough, I guess. But something about this whole scheme doesn’t sit right. I don’t know why Gen had to marry you so quick. She swears she’s not pregnant. I’m gonna say this one time—you lay a finger on her, you make her cry, you look at her the wrong way, and you’ll be getting shipped back to Israel in a fucking body bag. Got me, bro?”

  Cohen and Deo snarl for emphasis. I grit my teeth back.

  I stand straighter and bristle. “I would never hurt a hair on Genevieve’s head. I’m her husband. It’s my place to protect her, provide for her. I don’t take that lightly.”

  “Provide?” Cohen looks around with one eyebrow raised, and every flaw in the dismal room intensifies. “You’re off to a great start. Let’s get moving before the girls get back and scream at us for slacking.”

  I feel like I just got roughed up by the neighborhood bullies and called out by my rabbi all at once. The guys were nice enough when I was just Genevieve’s tutor/friend/fiancé. Now that I’m officially one of the family, things have changed.

  I’d be more pissed, except I can’t shake the feeling that maybe this is exactly what I deserve. Maybe I should have talked to myself like they just talked to me—before I trapped Genevieve in this piss poor excuse for an apartment while I scramble to make my degree into something that matters.

  I walk out to the truck and accept the fact that I’m going to be lifting more than the other guys. Every time a piece of furniture gets dropped on a toe, it’s one of mine. Every time there’s a bulky piece to lift or a crappy position to be in, I’m the one who deals with it.

  Which is fine by me.

  It’s not much, but I’ll do what I can to prove I’m not just some asshole who stole their little sister away for his own dickish reasons.

  Even if that’s exactly what I am.

  The furniture is high end, so nice it makes this dingy place look even worse. The girls make it home as we finish putting the bed together. Nothing’s ever looked as inviting as the cushy mattress Genevieve’s parents gave us, but every time I so much as look at the bed, every male in the room glowers like they all know the thoughts going through my head.

  Which probably isn’t much of a stretch.

  From the way Enzo snuck off with his date at the wedding to the way Cohen and Deo are around Maren and Whit, I have no doubt that whatever they imagine is going on in my head is probably ten times raunchier than anything I could possibly be thinking of.

  “We’re here! We’re here! Grab a paint roller and a tarp!” Cece is marching in, telling her brothers to go get drop cloths and cover the furniture.

  “Painting?” Enzo moans. “We carried all this shit in. How ’bout a break?”

  Cece shoves a bag at him. “Tacos from Los Cincos Puntos. You can thank me by painting that damn wall while you eat.”

  “Unbelievable,” Enzo mutters, but that’s the end of his tirade. After that he stuffs a taco in his mouth and snatches a paint roller from a pile on the floor.

  Genevieve dashes through the door, completely hidden by a huge mound of bags, and flies into my arms. I take the bags from her, kiss her softly, then pull away.

  “Wow. That’s a ton of stuff.”

  “Um, that’s, like, a quarter of what we bought.” She shrugs when I give her a nervous look. “I got kind of carried away. And we do need a ton of stuff. Right?”

  I nod. “Yeah. Look, I’m not sure if we’re allowed to paint in here.”

  She rolls her eyes and shakes me back and forth by the shirt collar. “Your PhD program could take another year to finish, and then what if they offer you a full time position? We may be here for a while, and I’m not about to live in a dingy white place. Plus, I read the housing guide they gave us. It’s fine as long as you paint it back to white when you leave.” She pulls my face down and kisses me. “Don’t you like color?”

  I look up and see that “color” means red. Bright, in-your-face, deep red.

  “Red?” I say, my eyes squinting at the color blistering the walls. “Don’t you think that might make the room look small?”

  She stiffens, coming down flat on her feet.

  “I thought you said you would be fine with what I picked.”

  “I just never thought you were getting paint. I thought, you know, throw pillows and stuff.” I take her by the shoulders. “It’s just really bold. That’s all.”

  She looks around, and I notice Cohen and Enzo staring at us over their tacos, eyes narrowed. Her voice drops.

  “You know what, Adam? It is bold. So is your wife.” She grabs a paintbrush from one of the million bags on the floor and presses it in my hand. “I guess next time you should come to the store if you’re going to hate what I buy. Or, you know, name a color when I ask.”

  Cohen saunters over. I’m sure our conversation was quiet enough that he didn’t hear, but the smirk on his face lets me know he probably got the gist based on the plummeting temperature in my corner. He thrusts a paper bag at me.

  “Sorry, man. Only vegetarian t
acos left.” He snickers as he walks away, and I wonder if my night can get any shittier.

  Then I remember my wife and I will be sharing a bed. In our new place. Alone.

  I glare at the paintbrush and vegetarian tacos, wondering what the hell I got myself into.

  I grit my teeth through the next few hours of painting, picture hanging, furniture setup, and general cleaning. I try not to show how pissed I am when Genevieve’s brothers push me to the side, over and over again, so they can oversee jobs I’m perfectly capable of doing on my own.

  I can handle a damn drill.

  I use more complicated tools in the lab every single day. They’re pretending they need to step in because they want me to feel like a useless asshole. And it seems like Genevieve looks right at me every time I get hit by another wave of condescension.

  I should point out that the new blinds didn’t fit the window because Cohen didn’t bother to top mount the brackets? I should mention that the dining room table legs were screwed on backward by Enzo, who was too busy telling me how to use the stud finder—the one I was already using with no problem—to realize what he was doing wrong?

  But I don’t, because I’m desperate to keep the peace with Genevieve. The hours tick by so slowly that I’m positive time is actually moving backward. But, finally, the last tile is scrubbed, the last floorboard is wiped down, the last dish is put away, and our guests have all filed out.

  Genevieve and I are left standing in our own place, which has been totally transformed.

  And I’m happy about it. She deserves an amazing place to live in.

  I just wanted to be the one who hung the blinds for her, who put the table together. I wanted to be one who made this place a home for her.

  “It looks great in here,” I say, shoving my hands in my pockets.

  “Are you being sarcastic?” She drops onto the brown leather loveseat we could have never afforded on our own. She leans her head back and closes her eyes. “Because I’m too tired to figure out what you’re pouting about now.”

  “I’m not being sarcastic at all.” I’m trying hard as hell to choose my words slowly, not say anything that will ignite this whole crazy situation. “And I have no clue why you’d think I’m pouting.”