Page 23 of My Husband Problem

“Ah.”

He pulls a hand from his pocket and shows me the key in his outstretched palm. “They also let me know where your spare key is,” he pauses, “Was. You’re not keeping a spare key on your front porch anymore.”

I lift a brow. “Is that your call?”

“Yes.” His tone is firm and brooks no argument.

And my treacherous body tingles in response.

That’s not okay. I am a very independent woman who has been taking care of myself and making my way in the world on my own for a while now.

Well, mostly on my own. I have friends, a supportive family, coaches, trainers, and all of that. I’m not so proud that I don’t give credit where it’s due. I couldn’t have done it all completely alone.

But I don’t need someone to police my front door. Especially in Rebel.

“What if I lock myself out?” I ask him.

“Don’t,” he says simply.

I never have. That’s not really something I would do. But the key is there for my neighbors to let themselves in and out. Which I like. They always come bearing gifts or to help out. I’m not exactly an expert in taking care of an entire house, and things like clogged drains and blown fuses require a tutorial from my neighbors.

That’s fine. I’ll just get a new key made and hide it somewhere else.

We don’t talk the rest of the way to my house. I’m running through all of the things he’s going to encounter while here, and how I can’t wait to see his reaction.

Like the uneven front steps, which he swears about when he catches his toe on the third one that’s about a half inch taller than the rest.

“Watch your step there,” I say, pointing to the spot in the porch floor where there’s a board missing.

“Yes, I noticed that when I stopped by here and nearly put my foot through the hole,” he grumbles. “Why is your porch falling apart?”

I shrug. “I wouldn’t say it’s falling apart. The people who come over know where to step. And where not to.”

I hold out my hand for the key to the door.

“Do they also know you keep a key under the otter statue right next to the front door?”

I look down at the mini-replica of the twenty-foot-tall otter statue on Main Street. “Yes. It’s how they get in when I’m not here.”

He makes a low growling noise that makes every nerve ending in my body sit up and say,oh, hello, Sir.

Then he reaches past me and inserts the key into the lock himself. Which causes his body to beveryclose to mine, and I forget what we were talking about.

He twists the knob, pushes the door open, and then waits for me to step into the house ahead of him. He shuts the door behind us, and I hear him turn the lock. I assume he pockets the key again.

I roll my eyes. What a pain in the ass.

Already.

I lead him through the living room and into the kitchen, where I know I need to go first.

A loud, long meow from the kitchen table stops Declan in the arched doorway.

A huge gray tabby is sitting in the middle of the table, where he always is when I come home.

He comes to the edge of the table as I cross the room, butting his head against my hand when I reach out to touch him.

“Declan, this is Oscar. Oscar, this is Declan.”