Page 104 of Trade It All

She giggles. I kiss the corner of her mouth. Then the other. Then her nose because apparently I have become unbearable overnight.

“As much as I would love to keep you naked in this bed until checkout,” I murmur, sliding my hand down her back, “we need to get ready.”

She blinks. “Why?”

I grin. Because she has no idea.

“Because,” I tell my wife, and God that feels good, “we’re heading out this morning.”

Her brows knit together. “Heading where?”

I kiss her once more. “To start our life.”

The high from Vegas lasts exactly until we leave the hotel room and have to pretend we are nothing to each other again.

Nothing. No touching on the plane. No sitting together. No kissing my wife when she falls asleep against the window and I want nothing more than to drag her across the aisle and into my lap.

Just stolen glances over seatbacks and Luka loudly complaining about airline pretzels while I sit there with a marriage certificate in my backpack feeling like the world’s most irritated newlywed.

I’m over it. Completely. This sneaking around thing was tolerable when she was my girlfriend. Annoying, but tolerable.

Now? Now she is my wife. My actual wife. And I am supposed to walk through O’Hare Airport like she is just another member of staff?

Absolutely fucking not.

I manage to keep my mouth shut until baggage claim. Barely. When the team starts filtering out to cars and drivers, I catch Maddie by the elbow in a blind spot beside the parking garage entrance.

Her eyes dart around instantly. “Dean—”

I press my penthouse key into her palm. Then lean in and whisper the private elevator code against her ear. “Go to my apartment.”

She blinks. “What?”

“I’m meeting you there.”

Her fingers curl around the key. “We can’t both walk out together.”

“We’re not.” I step back. “You leave now. I’m stopping for food.”

She studies my face. Sees I’m not in the mood for arguments.

A tiny smile tugs at her mouth. “Yes, Husband.”

Christ. I am never getting used to that. I squeeze her hand once and force myself to let her go before I create a scene in a parking garage.

Food is the first stop. Thai from the place she likes because she always steals half my noodles.

The second stop is impulse. Or maybe inevitability. I pass a jewelry store, slow, then immediately turn into the lot. Because there is no way in hell my wife is walking around with nothing on her finger.

Not after I watched her say forever to me.

The salesman tries to show me flashy diamonds and thick platinum nonsense. I wave him off.

“No. Simple bands.”

He blinks. “For both?”

“Yes.”