Page 164 of Dial F for Finance

“We’ll fight about it,” I agree, the corners of my mouth finally twitching upward.

“And you’ll learn to stop and ask before acting.”

A tear streaks from my eye. “I will.”

“And I’ll learn to speak up instead of shutting down.”

“OK.” The engine inside my chest turns over, roaring back to life. I can’t take it anymore. I need to hold my wife.

I wrap my hands around her waist, pulling her flush against me. She goes up on her tiptoes, her arms sliding around my neck, and the moment our lips meet, the entire garage spins out of focus.

It’s not a gentle kiss. It’s a collision. It’s ten days of starvation, of agonizing regret and meticulous, self-inflicted ruin, completely obliterated by the taste of her. She opens her mouth for me, demanding and desperate, her fingers threading into my hair. I groan, walking her backward until her spine hits the edge of the rolling tool chest.

I break the kiss only when my lungs absolutely demand it, resting my forehead against hers. We’re both panting, breathing each other’s air in the dim light of the garage.

“Fuck, I missed you, Jen.” My hands are still gripping her waist, smudging engine grease over the gray fleece, but she doesn’t care.

“I missed you too.” She reaches blindly behind her, her fingers grazing the edge of the manila folder she tossed on the tool chest.

She pulls the paperwork from inside it, and with a swift, decisive motion, she rips the annulment papers cleanly in half. Then she stacks the halves and tears them again, tossing the shredded legal ruin of our worst days onto the concrete floor.

My chest expands, the last knot of tension unspooling from my spine.

Before I can say a word, Jenna reaches over to her right hand. She slides the two heavy metal bands—the simple gold one from Tokyo and the custom ring I sent to Queens—off her middle finger. She holds them out to me, the gold catching the harsh fluorescent shop light.

“Since we’re staying married,” she says, a soft smile breaking through her exhausted features, “you’ll be needing these—Mr. Pemberton-Cruz.”

A grin splits my face, wide and filled with relief. I look from the rings in her palm up to her eyes, my heart hammering a wild, disbelieving rhythm. “You decided on a name?”

“Yes,” she says, her gaze fiercely locked on mine. “It’s the only logical structure.”

“Pemberton-Cruz it is,” I say.

I hold out my hand and she slides the rings back onto my left ring finger where they belong. The warm metal settles against my skin. Home.

“I love you, Jenna.”

“I love you too, Dominic.”

I crush my mouth to hers again. The kiss is deeper this time, a promise and a homecoming all at once. I slide my arms under her thighs and hoist her up, carrying her toward the stairs.

CHAPTER 47

Jenna

He doesn’t put me down until we reach the bedroom. He lets my legs slide down his waist, his grease-stained hands leaving dark smudges on the gray fleece of the hoodie. I don’t care. I’ve spent my entire life keeping everything perfectly clean, perfectly managed, and right now, all I want is the beautiful, chaotic mess of him.

“I’m going to ruin the sheets,” Dominic murmurs, his chest heaving as he looks down at his hands, then at my face. “I need a shower.”

“We’ll get new sheets,” I say, reaching for the hem of the hoodie and pulling it over my head. I toss it to the floor, revealing the simple black cotton bra beneath it.

Dominic’s breath catches. His dark eyes tracing the lines of my body.

“Fuck, Jen.”

I reach out and grip the hem of his grease-stained T-shirt. “Lift your arms.”

He complies immediately, a silent, absolute surrender. I strip the shirt from him, letting it join the hoodie on the floor. His chest is a landscape of taut muscle and ink, his skin hot to the touch, his heart hammering violently against my palms as I flatten my hands over his tattooed pecs.