Rogue Acts

by Molly O'Keefe

  That prenup might also provide her with a reminder, if she needed one, of the precise terms of their marriage. The document’s strict bounds would confine her. Corral any wayward emotions.

  He shook his head. “You won’t take advantage of me, Elizabeth. Everyone knows that. And if they don’t, they should.”

  “We’re doing it,” she told him. “Or else the deal is off.”

  Despite his narrowed-eye death stare, she didn’t falter or flinch.

  He sighed. “Fine. We’ll get a prenup.”

  “Second, we need to make a list of all our expected household expenses and divvy them up fairly.” Fishing in her purse, she located her phone. “Let’s do that over pizza. I’m paying.”

  He took the cell from her hand and gave his own credit card number for the order, despite her protestations. A fitting start to the expense-allotment discussion, which—to her complete lack of surprise—didn’t go smoothly either. Even Carmelo’s truly excellent chicken parmesan pizza couldn’t make the stubborn man across the table see reason.

  “If you cook for us, we can consider that ample repayment for your portion of the utilities and all the other bills.” James set aside his cleared plate and patted the gentle mound of his stomach. “We both know how much I love your food.”

  She glared at him as she removed the blueberry cheesecake from his refrigerator. “No. Absolutely not. I’ll pay an equal share.”

  But after a few more rounds of argument and a couple wedges of the cheesecake, she found herself agreeing to a compromise. She’d get a discount on the bills in exchange for cooking, largely because he told her, his mouth set in a mulish line, that he wouldn’t eat her food otherwise. And that was unacceptable to her.

  They tackled her third and final addendum over decaf coffee. By then, he’d stripped off his sweatshirt and was—rather distractingly—only wearing a worn, thin t-shirt and jeans that molded faithfully to his strong thighs.

  It was unfair, to say the least.

  “We need to discuss what we should do if we find ourselves interested in other people.” She looked down at the sturdy blue mug in her hand, trying not to picture the situation. “While we’re still married, I mean.”

  A long silence stretched between them, and he didn’t say a word. Finally, she raised her gaze to him again.

  And for some reason, he looked…odd. Agitated, almost. Above his golden-brown beard, his cheeks had flushed, and those crossed arms had tightened until she could see his biceps pulling at his tee.

  She didn’t understand. Was he embarrassed at the awkwardness of the question? Or was the thought of another romantic relationship that repugnant to him after the slow-motion train wreck of his marriage?

  His blue eyes rested on her, sharp and intent. “Do you think it’s likely you’ll want to date another man?”

  “Of course not.” She waved a hand. “I don’t have the energy for dating. And if I haven’t found someone I loved enough to marry in forty-seven years, what’s the likelihood I’m going to locate one this year?”

  “You’re marrying me,” he pointed out, his shoulders dropping a fraction.

  “That’s different, and we both know it.”

  He made a kind of humming sound in response.

  “But we should come up with a plan in case you meet someone.” And God, why did that thought send a lightning bolt of pain through her chest?

  He dismissed her statement with a shrug. “Nah. I’m good.”

  She didn’t have the strength to argue more. Or maybe she didn’t want to argue more, not about that. “Fine. Forget about it.”

  Then, to her shock, he added one final addendum of his own.

  “We can divorce once you’re eligible for individual insurance again.” He reached out to clasp her hand, a gesture he seemed to make all the time now. As always, it felt warm and comforting in a way that discomfited her. “But we don’t have to. I want that clear. As far as I’m concerned, we can stay married forever.”

  Why? Why would he make that offer?

  She laughed through the ache and the longing. “I’m unfit for human company before I’ve had at least two cups of tea in the morning. When I cook or bake, I manage to dirty every dish, measuring cup, and utensil available. And I like to take nightly hour-long baths that use up all the hot water in the house. You don’t want me as your permanent wife. Trust me.”

  He didn’t laugh in response. “I do trust you. That’s my point.”

  Oh, God. The sweetness of that stung.

  “I don’t see myself marrying anyone else, Elizabeth. Not soon, not ever. I also think we’d make a good team. And as far as your baths, my hot water heater has way more capacity than yours.” He raised an eyebrow. “As you’ll soon find out, there are benefits to marrying someone in the building trades. And you don’t have to give up those benefits if you don’t want to. Again: not soon, not ever.”

  When she pursed her lips and looked down, he directed her eyes back to his with a gentle finger under her chin. “Just promise me you’ll think about it. That’s all I’m asking.”

  So in the end, she agreed to that too.

  If tonight’s discussion was a preview of their married life, she was pretty sure she’d never win an argument with James. Not a single one. Which should be a terrifying thought for someone who’d always prized her freedom, her ability to make whatever decisions she thought best.

  And even through her haze of relief, she was unnerved.

  Not because he might trample on her independence—but because marriage to him already felt like so much more than a convenience.

  The wedding should have ended with a perfunctory embrace.

  The courthouse judge, his face expectant and wreathed with a smile, had pronounced them husband and wife and invited James to kiss Elizabeth. It was the standard end to a standard civil ceremony. The judge didn’t understand the situation, of course.

  This wasn’t a marriage born out of love, but necessity.

  They’d planned it in less than a week and invited only a few local friends and James’s kids as witnesses. Other than the bouquet of lace-wrapped pink roses James had unexpectedly produced for her that morning, there were no flowers. No bridesmaids or groomsmen. She was wearing a knee-length cream dress purchased for her niece’s christening twelve years before, while James’s suit pulled a bit at his shoulders and middle. God only knew how long he’d owned it. The rings they’d just donned were thick and gold but completely generic, despite his repeated offers to find other options.

  So at the end of the ceremony, she expected a peck on the cheek. Maybe even a brief buss on her lips, for the sake of anyone who might question the wisdom or validity of the marriage.

  Instead, James cradled her face in his warm, rough hands with deliberate care. His thumb stroked her cheek in a gentle arc. And he lowered his mouth to hers as her brain fogged with the scent of sunshine and clean cotton. James’s scent.

  Then he was kissing her.

  Not a peck. Not a buss. A kiss. A tender, exploratory greeting of a kiss.

  His beard brushed against her cheeks as he courted every corner, every curve of her mouth. He took his time, and she responded without thinking to the dizzying pleasure of it.

  When her mouth opened, the kiss transformed. Still slow, still careful. But no longer innocent or friendly, not with her knowledge of how he tasted and the hoarse rumble in his chest when his tongue met hers for the first time.

  Her hands, which had come to rest against that broad barrel of a chest, curled in on themselves. So did her toes.

  But somewhere inside, a brittle, hidden part of her unfurled like a fern under his touch. A part she’d deprived of oxygen and nourishment for almost three decades, shoving it deep when it threatened her friendships and her self-respect. Coiling it tight whenever she caught herself imagining things that didn’t exist, possibilities that would never come to fruition.

  You cause me bitterness and grief, and I reject both, she’d told it.

>   Over the last hellish couple of years, she’d forgotten it existed entirely.

  Deep-rooted, though, it had apparently remained. Waiting. Dormant. Hopeful.

  James’s thick arm encircled her waist and hitched her against his body, and he was surrounding her with heat and strength. If she teetered, he’d keep her upright. If she wanted to hide, she could burrow her face into that delicious-smelling neck and trust he’d shield her. Her secrets. Her vulnerabilities.

  Oh, the relief of it. Her eyes prickled, even as her limbs grew warm and languid.

  Then he raised his head, arm still tight around her waist, and she dimly registered the hush of a half-dozen stunned wedding guests. All people who knew the situation. Who knew this wasn’t a real marriage, blindingly sweet kiss notwithstanding.

  No doubt they were wondering what exactly they’d just witnessed.

  Funny. So was she.

  5

  After the small, post-wedding gathering of family and friends at James’s house ended, Elizabeth headed directly for the master bathroom. Like the rest of the house, it wasn’t huge, but it was impeccably maintained and impressively outfitted.

  “Is it okay if I take a bath?” she called out, already halfway up the stairs.

  He appeared at the lowest step a moment later, shaking his head. “Of course it’s okay. This is your house too, Elizabeth. Take a million baths.”

  She didn’t need a million. She just needed one, right this second.

  She needed water so hot it would melt away her foolishness. She needed bubbles, reminders of how fleeting beauty could be. She needed a wet, warm washcloth over her eyes, simply because this was her damn wedding day. She deserved some pampering.

  But most of all, she needed a few minutes alone to remember the circumstances of her wedding.

  She hadn’t married for love.

  He hadn’t either.

  They’d agreed to wed for one reason and one reason only: so she could share his excellent healthcare benefits, get a biopsy the first of next month, and afford any necessary treatments thereafter. It didn’t matter how sweetly and thoroughly he’d kissed her in front of the judge, or how firmly he’d held her hand as they chatted with his amiable sons, or how often he’d told her she looked lovely in her cream dress.

  None of that changed anything.

  An hour spent naked, wet, and on her back should get her head straight.

  Although, now that she’d thought about it in those terms, maybe not.

  Still, she filled the gorgeous soaking tub with steaming water and poured her foaming bath salts. Then she stripped, wiggled her toes against the warm tiles underfoot—James had seriously undersold the benefits of a husband in construction—and grabbed two fresh towels and a washcloth from the quartz-topped vanity.

  Was that…was that a heated towel rack off to the side? Really?

  Shit, she was never leaving this bathroom again. And since James had offered her the master suite, explaining that he’d found it too big for a man alone and had been living in the guest room since he’d moved in, she supposed she didn’t really have to leave.

  Marriage rocked.

  A quick ponytail later, she slid beneath the bubbles with a sigh and positioned a rolled-up towel under her neck. After wetting the washcloth, she draped it over her eyes and waited for clarity.

  And waited. And waited.

  Instead, she remembered how she’d taken James aside at their gathering and told him she’d pull her weight. She’d make sure he didn’t regret his decision. She’d never take advantage of him or burden him more than she already had.

  He listened patiently, although he didn’t appear overly concerned.

  But when she told him he could divorce her whenever he wanted, for whatever reason he wanted, he rolled his eyes, then leaned down and kissed the tip of her nose.

  “Stop worrying,” he told her.

  Then somehow, old-school Madonna began playing on his stereo system, which he’d mysteriously wired throughout the house. Another construction-husband perk, no doubt.

  He swung her into his arms and pressed his cheek against hers while pre-English-accent Madge—Elizabeth’s favorite version, which James clearly knew—sang about how crazy she was for her lover. How her heart raced at his nearness. How their bodies merged in the dark.

  Elizabeth clung to James, unable to do anything else. And when the music faded, when the small crowd applauded and he loosened his hold, she’d cried again, and he’d tenderly wiped away those tears too.

  She’d stared up at him through blurry eyes, speechless.

  It was their wedding song. He’d given her a wedding song.

  So how exactly was she supposed to keep her feet planted on solid earth? How was she supposed to stop herself from floating away like one of those bubbles, only to pop in a cold splatter at the first touch of reality?

  This. This was why she’d never asked him for anything. Why she’d never let herself rely on him. Sure, she hadn’t wanted to burden a man who already struggled under the weight of an addiction-ravaged marriage, two wonderful but needy kids, and the expenses attendant with all three. Sure, she was accustomed to dealing with her problems on her own.

  But more than that, she’d known. If she ever let him closer, she’d fall.

  And he’d been married for over twenty years.

  With a hysterical half-giggle, half-sob, she remembered: He was now married again. This time to her. And given the circumstances, it was simultaneously the best and worst thing that had ever happened to her.

  At a quiet knock on the bathroom door, she froze.

  “Are you okay?” He sounded concerned. “It sounded like you were crying.”

  Oh, God, how embarrassing. He’d caught her laughing at herself like a loon.

  “I’m fine!” she called back.

  “Good.” A pause. “I was also wondering what you wanted me to do with your friend Jenny’s painting. I can”—he must have turned away from the door, because his words became indecipherable for a moment—“while you’re in the bath, if you’d like.”

  She sat up straight. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

  “I said I can take the painting and”—more indistinct mumbles—“if that’s what you want.”

  This was ridiculous. She wasn’t exactly a shy virgin, and they were both adults. Hell, they were married to each other. They didn’t need to shout at one another through a door.

  Her layer of bubbles was still thick and opaque, and she had a handy towel nearby for emergency coverage. Good enough.

  “Let’s make this easier on both of us, James.” She slid back down and rested her head against the towel. “Why don’t you come in, and we’ll talk?”

  Another, longer pause. “Are you sure?”

  “If I weren’t, I wouldn’t have offered.”

  The door cracked open an inch. “If you’re certain, there are a few toiletries I should move to the guest bathroom too.”

  “Be my guest.” She snorted. “Or be the homeowner, I suppose. I mean, this is your house.”

  “Our house.”

  The door opened all the way, and he slowly walked into the bathroom, his eyes averted from the tub. And if she wasn’t mistaken—

  “Are you holding a plate of petits fours? In a bathroom?”

  He chewed a bit, and then swallowed audibly. “I make no apologies. I didn’t know you’d invite me inside. And you made them, so they’re delicious, just like all the other snacks and sweets you cooked for the party. I wanted to eat them while they were fresh.”

  No wonder she hadn’t been able to understand him through the door. He’d probably been chewing then too.

  He set his plate down on the smooth, speckled vanity countertop and selected another petit four. Holding it carefully between his thumb and forefinger, he studied the poured fondant glaze and the sugared rose petal on top. The swirls piped along the sides with such care.

  All shiny white and sparkling pink. All more wedding-cake-like tha
n she’d intended.

  He nodded his head a little, seemingly to himself.

  When he spoke again, his voice was low and soft. “Do you want one?”

  His eyes met hers in the half-fogged mirror, and suddenly, even though she didn’t slip an inch, she was drowning. She nodded too, and he slowly walked toward her. Slowly knelt on the thick mat by the bath and offered the petit four to her.

  When she took it from him, their fingers brushed. She shivered, and his eyes narrowed.

  “Are you cold? Do you want me to run more hot water?”

  She was plenty hot. For the first time in years, maybe.

  “I’m…” She swallowed. “I’m good. Thank you for the snack.”

  She popped the petit four into her mouth, not knowing what else to do. The moist loft of the vanilla sponge, the welcome tartness of lemon curd against sweet raspberry jam, made her smile in pride. Made her close her eyes in pleasure.

  After two years away from her bakery, she still knew her shit.

  When she opened her eyes again, the heat from the bath had coaxed a flush along James’s cheekbones.

  He cleared his throat. “Another?”

  “No, thank you. I’m still full from everything I ate earlier.” A huge bubble was clinging to the side of the tub, just on the water line, and she lifted a toe to pop it. “Didn’t you say something about the painting Jenny gave me?”

  He blinked, hard. “Uh, yeah. I was wondering if you wanted me to hang it in your bedroom. I can do that while you’re bathing, if you’d like.”

  “Oh, what a lovely idea.” She smiled at him, delighted by the thought. “She shouldn’t have given it to me, not considering the prices she gets for her originals these days, but I’ve always adored that painting. I’m so glad to have it.” She scrunched her nose. “Does that make me vain?”

  He rested his elbows on the edge of the tub. “Because you love a gorgeous, colorful portrait created by a good friend? One where you’re painting your toenails and looking happy? Why would that make you vain?”

  “Well, it’s sort of like admiring myself, right?” Flicking a bubble with her finger, she considered the matter. “But I think what I love most about it is remembering how much fun we had while she painted me. I can’t even tell you how many layers of polish I went through. It took me buckets of acetone to get it all off between sessions.”