Page 56 of The Temporary Bride

“It was at the wedding,” I say. “When you couldn’t hear the priest. I noticed the way you turned your head toward him and figured it wasn’t an accident.”

“Yeah.” She grimaces. “That freaked me out for a few seconds. I was afraid everyone was going to find out.”

“I don’t think anyone else noticed,” I assure her. “Just me.”

She averts her gaze, and her voice carries a somber note as she murmurs, “I’ve been learning some sign language because… there’s a chance that the disease will progress. That I’ll go completely deaf someday.”

“I’m sorry,” I tell her quietly. “That must be stressful to carry.”

Her gaze meets mine. “It shouldn’t happen within the next three years, though.”

There’s a hint of defensiveness in her eyes, almost as if she’s trying to banish any concerns I might have about our marriage, about shouldering the burden of her condition.

Fuck. I don’t like that. The three years again, that firm line she keeps drawing, the finish line she’s already locked her eyes on. It bothers me more than it should, more than it would have a month ago, and the fact that it bothers me this much makes me feel like I’m standing on unsteady footing.

I reach across the table and put my hand over hers. She goes still, looking down at where my hand covers hers, her fingers warm from holding her mug of coffee.

“Whatever happens with your hearing,” I tell her, “however it goes, it won’t change anything.”

She nods, giving me a half smile before her gaze darts away from mine again. But I can see the doubt lingering in her eyes, and I know she doesn’t fully believe me.

Chapter 19

Chloe

Several days later, I find myself at work, immersed in the daily hustle and bustle of my professional life. Despite the recent milestone of our wedding, there was no time for a honeymoon. Tristan and I are both too busy with the demands of our careers, especially the joint venture between MediaSphere and Thorne Enterprises, which consumes most of our time.

The thought of a honeymoon is strange, anyway. It would’ve been uncomfortable, to say the least. Sharing space with another person in such an intimate way is already a significant adjustment for me. Being secluded with Tristan on a honeymoon, with no distractions or obligations, would only intensify the sense of unfamiliarity and discomfort.

It’s strange enough navigating the intricacies of married life within the confines of our home. Adding the pressure of a honeymoon would have been overwhelming.

The sleeping situation is not getting easier.

Tristan has kept his word. He hasn’t touched me, hasn’t pushed anything, hasn’t done anything that would give me legitimate grounds for complaint. But that doesn’t solve the problem of what my body decides to do while I’m unconscious, which is apparently to find him and stay there, regardless of where I started the night. I go to bed pressed against the far edge of the mattress and I wake up tucked against his side, every single morning, like some kind of deeply embarrassing homing pigeon. I’ve started going to bed so close to the edge that I’ve nearly fallen off twice, and it still doesn’t make a difference. By three in the morning I’m halfway across the bed.

I haven’t groped his dick again or anything. Thank god, because that was possibly the most embarrassing moment of my life. But I’m seriously considering building some sort of pillow wall just to keep my sleeping self from draping over him like a blanket.

My stomach flutters a little at the memory of what his cock felt like beneath my palm. He’s big—really big.

It’s been a long time since I’ve been with a man. I haven’t really wanted to. After an experience that left scars I still haven’t quite faced, I’ve mostly avoided dating, sex, and anything that could make my life feel messier than it already is.

But I can’t help the way my thighs clench at the thought of Tristan’s cock beneath my palm.

With a frustrated sigh, I push back from my desk. I need to blow off some steam, so I grab my gym bag from its cubby in my office and call a car.

Ashbury Athletic is twenty minutes from the office. It’s the kind of gym that doesn’t advertise and doesn’t need to, where the membership fees alone make the clientele self-selecting. I’ve belonged for years. The locker room smells like eucalyptus and expensive soap, the equipment is always spotless, and nobody here asks for photos or tries to pitch me something while I’m on the treadmill. It’s the closest thing to actual peace I get on a weekday.

I change quickly, pull my hair up, and head out to the main floor. The gym has the focused energy of people who take their workouts seriously, steady rhythms on the cardio equipment and the low clank of weights from the far end of the room. I find a treadmill in the middle row, set it to a pace that’s challenging but not impossible, and start running.

As I’m working out, my attention is drawn to a group of women gathered at the corner of the gym. Among them is Iris, Tristan’s ex-girlfriend, chatting animatedly with the others as they stretch on a yoga mat.

Shit. I’ve never seen her here before. Or at least, I’ve never noticed, probably because I had no idea who she was before my marriage to Tristan.

A pang of discomfort tightens my chest at the sight of her. I focus on my own workout, pushing harder to distract myself. It’s irrational to let Iris’s presence affect me like this, I remind myself. I’m married to Tristan now. Officially.

And I shouldn’t care about his ex. Hell, this whole charade is going to be over in three years, right? I have no business being rattled by her.

With renewed determination, I increase my pace, channeling my energy into each stride. I don’t have time for distractions. I have limited space in my schedule for this workout, and⁠—