Page 59 of The Temporary Bride

“It was stupid. I just missed a step while I was running.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Missed a step?”

“I got distracted during my workout,” I admit.

There’s a beat of silence, and when I glance up, I see a flicker of something new in his eyes. His jaw tightens ever so slightly, and I wonder what’s going through his mind.

“Oh,” he says, his voice dropping an octave. “Distracted?”

It’s subtle, but I don’t miss the jealousy in his tone, and it hits me suddenly that he thinks some other man caught my eye. I see it in the way his mouth tightens, the way his posture stiffens. It sends a surge of indignation through me.

How fucking dare he?

I lean forward, possessive irritation bubbling to the surface. How dare he feel jealous when I’m the one who should feel that way? After all, I’m the one who had to listen to his ex-girlfriend laying claim to him, confidently predicting the end of our marriage as if it were nothing more than a temporary inconvenience.

“What distracted you?” he asks, his voice measured but carrying an edge.

“Oh, not much.” I bite out the words, my tone dripping with sarcasm. “Just hearing your ex-girlfriend talk about how you’re going to get back together in three years, once you’re free of this marriage.”

Chapter 20

Tristan

My head jerks back, and a surge of disbelief and anger courses through me. “What the fuck? What are you talking about?”

My pulse quickens, every muscle in my body tensing as I stare at Chloe. Her words hit me like a gut punch.

She crosses her arms, her posture rigid. “She said that this ‘loveless’ marriage will be over in three years. That you two will have the chance to try again.”

The jealousy in her voice is unmistakable, and despite the sheer absurdity of what she’s saying, a rush of something primal stirs in me. It shouldn’t, not given the situation, but there’s a strange satisfaction in seeing her get pissed off and territorial over me. Maybe because, in a way, it means she cares. Despite everything, despite how this marriage began, she’s not indifferent.

But I shove that thought aside. This isn’t the time. Iris is fucking with her head, with our heads, and I’m not going to let her succeed.

“Hey,” I say sharply, stepping closer to Chloe. “Look at me.”

Her gaze flicks up, meeting mine with those stormy gray eyes. The hurt is there, simmering just beneath the surface, and it only fuels my anger at Iris. Chloe doesn’t deserve this. Not from her. Not from anyone.

“Iris was wrong,” I say firmly, making sure every word hits its mark. “There’s no chance of us getting back together. Not before we got married, and sure as hell not now.”

She watches me closely, her expression still guarded, but there’s a crack in her armor. I know she’s trying to decide if she believes me or not, so I push on, keeping my voice steady even though the memory of Iris makes my blood boil.

“What Iris conveniently forgot to mention is that the last time we broke up, it was because I caught her cheating on me. And I’m fairly certain every other time we ‘took breaks,’ it was because she’d been screwing around and wanted to go off and fuck someone else.”

A look of anger passes across Chloe’s beautiful face, her lips twisting downward. “That’s fucked up. You didn’t deserve that.”

I shrug, unbothered. My past with Iris is what it is—complicated and in the past. Right now, all I care about is the gorgeous, slightly injured woman sitting on the table in front of me.

“Maybe, but trust me, my past with Iris is the last thing on my mind right now,” I tell her. Something in the way my voice drops must register with Chloe, because her eyes snap up to meet mine. Her lips part slightly and she stops breathing, so I know I’ve got her attention. Good.

“You’ve got nothing to be jealous of. It isn’t Iris I’m thinking of every morning while I fuck my hand.” I keep my gaze locked on her face as I say it, watching the color climb up her neck and into her cheeks. “It’s not her name on my lips when I come.” I pause, letting the silence stretch. “That’s reserved for my wife.”

Her breath shifts, coming out a little uneven, her chest rising and falling faster than it was a moment ago. She’s trying to keep her face neutral but not quite managing it.

“You like that,” I say. It comes out certain, because it is. “Knowing that I think about you when I touch myself.”

She holds out for a second, something working behind her eyes, a war between what she wants to admit and what she thinks she should. Her lower lip trembles slightly, and I wait, letting her get there on her own.

Then she nods, almost imperceptibly. “Yes. I do like it.”