Page 87 of The Temporary Bride

He looks at me for a long moment, his thumb resting against my cheekbone, his eyes heavy but holding mine, and then the exhaustion finally wins. His eyelids drop closed as his hand slides slowly from my face. I catch it in my own and clamber off his lap, urging him upward on the mattress so that he’s sprawled out on top of it.

He murmurs something else that’s too garbled to make out, and then his breathing deepens and evens out. Within a few breaths, he’s completely out, his chest rising and falling in a slow steady rhythm.

I ease myself carefully off the bed and pull the blanket over him, tucking it around his shoulders. Then I stand there in the dimly lit bedroom, looking down at him.

Handsome. Powerful. Possessive.

Damaged in ways I’m only beginning to understand.

My husband.

Chapter 30

Tristan

I wake up feeling groggy and disoriented, my head pounding like a bass drum. The sunlight filtering through the curtains is harsh, making the hangover worse. I blink, trying to clear the fog from my mind. It takes me a second to realize where I am—in our bedroom, not some bland hotel suite or my office couch.

My throat is dry, and my mouth tastes like cotton. I groan and roll over, the movement sending a wave of nausea through me. It’s late, much later than I usually sleep. I glance at the clock on the nightstand and see it’s well past ten. Thank god it’s the weekend and I don’t have to drag myself into the office.

As I try to gather my thoughts, fragments of last night come back to me. The bar, the drinks, the confrontation with my mother. What I discovered about my father’s cancer and his secrets.

The bed beside me is empty, but when I look over, I see a glass of water and some pills on the nightstand. Chloe must have left them for me. I reach for the pills and swallow them down with the water, feeling a small surge of gratitude.

I sit up slowly, massaging my temples to try and ease the pounding headache filling my skull. The painkillers should help soon, but right now, I need something more immediate. A shower.

Dragging myself out of bed, I head to the bathroom, stripping off my clothes as I go. The cool tiles under my feet are a shock, but they help clear some of the fog from my mind. I turn on the shower, letting the water run until it’s hot, and then step under the spray.

I stand there for a while, just letting the heat sink into my muscles, easing the tension and pain. Slowly, I start to feel human again. The combination of the shower and the painkillers begins to work, dulling the throbbing in my head to a manageable level.

I wash my hair, scrub my face, and rinse away the regrets and exhaustion. By the time I turn off the water and step out, I’m feeling more like myself. I towel off, comb through my hair, and throw on some clean clothes.

As I head downstairs, the smell of coffee greets me, mixing with the salty tang of the ocean breeze coming through the open windows. The house is quiet except for the soft sound of waves crashing against the shore outside.

I head to the kitchen, drawn by the smell of fresh coffee. The pot is still steaming. I pour myself a cup, the warmth seeping through the ceramic and into my hands.

With my coffee in hand, I step outside onto the patio. The view is incredible as always, the ocean stretching endlessly in front of me. The waves crash against the shore in a steady rhythm, the sound soothing and constant. I take a deep breath, letting the salty air fill my lungs, hoping it’ll help clear out the rest of my hangover.

I sit quietly, the warmth of the sun and the steady crash of the waves working to settle the mess inside me. From my spot on the patio, I take in the view of the beach below.

Down at the edge of the water, I can see Chloe, her figure outlined against the ocean. She walks along the shoreline, her feet just skimming the edge of the waves as they lap at the sand.

I watch her, sipping my coffee and letting the sight of her bring me some peace. Then I set my cup down on one of the patio tables and make my way toward the staircase that leads to the sea.

I take a deep breath, taking in the salty tang of the ocean air, and make my way down the steps to join her.

As I approach, she looks up and smiles. “Hey,” she says. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m alright,” I say, managing a small smile in return. “Thanks for the painkillers. They helped a lot.”

“I’m glad,” she says, her eyes scanning my face as if checking for any lingering signs of discomfort. “You had me worried last night.”

I take her hand and squeeze it. “I’m sorry about that. I didn’t mean to worry you.”

She continues along the beach, and I fall into step beside her. The breeze stirs her hair, lifting the dark strands. She’s dressed in a tank top and a pair of light, flowing pants that shift with every movement.

“What happened, Tristan?” she asks as we walk. “What got you so fucked up?”

I hesitate, the words catching in my throat. I’ve always been good at keeping my emotions under wraps, but the way she’s looking at me—my wife, concern in her eyes—makes it impossible to deny her.