Page 4 of My Husband Problem

Too bad the other four judges for the Perks and Rec Shrimp Spectacular—which is really just five people taste-testing new flavors for inclusion on the café’s menu, but they give big, over-the-top names to everything—are born-and-bred Louisianians. They’ll probably call bacon-wrapped shrimp boring. I had to pay a hundred bucks to sit on this judging panel anyway, and my not-Louisiana roots are suspect whenever food is involved.

As I chew, I surreptitiously slip another of the spicy-as-fuck-lemon-garlic-shrimp into my purse.

I can’t leave it on my plate. I can vote against it, but I can’t not eat it.

Bruce has already refused to serve me iced tea because I committed the unforgivable sin of adding an artificial sweetener in public. He's also threatened to ban me if I —

“Declan!”

My head jerks up, and I start choking as a piece of shrimp slides to the back of my throat.

My coughing is the only sound in the otherwise suddenly silent coffee shop-slash-bar.

All eyes turn to me. But not because I’m choking. No one makes a move to save my life. They’re simply curious about my reaction to my husband walking in.

My eyes are watering slightly, but I manage to swallow the piece of shrimp, clear my throat—no thanks to the two firefighters and one nurse present—and pull myself together. At least outwardly.

Inwardly, I’m thinking two things:oh, shit, andof course Wilson told him where to find me.

Declan O’Grady isn’t the type of guy to just sit down on the top step of my porch and wait.

Even though I did enjoy picturing that for the second…or sixty…that I had it in mind.

“What are you doing here?” Nora Delaune, the town’s Parks and Rec director and mistress of ceremonies for this taste-testing (Nora is the mistress of ceremonies for everything that happens in Rebel) asks Declan.

She’s now standing directly in front of him, obviously one of the first to notice when he walked in.

Which is great. Nora can handle almost any situation.

Though until he speaks, I’m not sure he’s even noticed her.

Because he hasn’t taken his eyes offme.

This makes it very difficult to breathe. Separate from the cayenne lingering at the back of my throat and the seafood I just tried to inhale mostly whole.

“Hello, future sister-in-law,” he says, with a smile. “I’m here to see my wife, of course.”

That smooth, rich, deep voice I haven’t heard in four months rolls over me and does what it always does—makes me very aware of my skin.

That sounds weird, but that’s exactly what happens. My skin gets warmer and tingly, and I get very aware of my clothes against it. All of it. Every single inch. And then the stupid urge to havefewerclothes against it tries to take over.

Just from the guy’s voice. Not what he says specifically, just him talking in general.

But that ‘my wife’ thing makes my skin reallyawareand makes it even harder to breathe.

Of course, I know I’m his wife. Technically anyway.

But hearing him say the words is…not something I was prepared for.

I swallow hard again and have to cough slightly.

By now, half of the café is staring at him, and the other half is staring at me.

“Well, of course,” Nora says sunnily.

Nora says most things sunnily, but I’ve now known her long enough to realize that this is slightly fake sunnily. Like she’s just a little uncomfortable and not sure what’s going on.

Fair enough.