Page 85 of The Marriage Clause

A beat passes.

Then another.

Neither of us moves.

The foyer goes very still.

His eyes drift to my mouth.

Then lower.

Then back up again, and there is nothing polite left in his expression now. Nothing distant. Nothing brotherly or contractual or safe.

Just hunger.

Sharp and controlled and devastating in how carefully he's trying to leash it.

"We should look around," I say too quickly.

"Yes," he says, voice low. "We should."

Neither of us moves.

Then finally he takes my carry-on from beside the door and heads for the stairs.

I follow.

The bedroom at the top of the stairs is a disaster waiting to happen.

There is one bed.

Massive. White linen. Carved headboard. French doors opening to a private terrace that overlooks the sea.

I stop in the doorway.

Everett stops too.

"Well," I say faintly.

He sets the luggage down with too much control. "I can take another room."

Something inside me twists at how fast he offers.

At how natural it is now. Him putting distance between us. Him volunteering absence like it's the most thoughtful thing he has.

I should let him.

That would be easier.

Smarter.

Safer.

Instead I hear myself say, "We're supposed to be on our honeymoon."

He turns back toward me.

His expression gives away nothing.