Page 181 of Hate You More

I taste myself from his lips. “I love you,” I whisper. “You make me so happy.”

“Forever and always,” he returns as he lifts, then carries me over to the neglected bed. Pressed heart to heart, I cry out as he anchors us together with that first slow thrust.

“You,” he whispers, rising above me, love pouring from those burnt-caramel eyes. “I will never get enough of you if I live to be a hundred years old.”

And that’s the truth for us both.

On the way back to the marina, Troy throws his arm carelessly across my shoulders. “It’s not the first time she’s seen my ass.”

“Who?” I demand as jealousy flares inside me.

“My mom.”

“Oh. That’s okay, then.”

“I love it when you’re jealous.” He presses his lips to my cheek. “But also, you were the one who wanted to bring her on our honeymoon.”

“I love spending time with your mom, and we are not on honeymoon,” I add, trying to ignore the way my skin reacts to the brush of his hand. The evening is sultry, the old stones underfoot still seeming to hold some of the earlier day’s temperature. “Unless this is our second honeymoon so far this year.” This year that’s only six months long so far.

“I think everyone should have an annual honeymoon.”

“Or two?” I tsk. “Senility must’ve set in early. Maybe I should consider divorce proceedings.” I find myself spun around in that instant, my hands flat against his chest.

“I told you, wife, this isn’t over until I say it is.” He kisses me on the nose, spins me around, then smacks my butt.

“Hey!”

“Don’t blame me. Blame the Spanish lothario.”

“Hmph.” But I’m smiling on the inside. I glance around at the old town, inhaling deeply, relishing the sights and sounds. And the scents. Orange blossoms and food from nearby restaurants. The salty brine of the ocean not so far away.

Arm in arm, we return to our meandering stroll as we make for Puerto Banús marina. I don’t even have to ask him to slow down for my shorter legs these days.

“I think our whole marriage is a honeymoon,” my sweet talker says, his lips nuzzling my neck.

This man. My man . . . is good with his mouth. So good, in fact, that he’s still the CEO of Table, his company.

It seems just like yesterday we’d spent the remains of that weekend ensconced in my favorite staycation Manhattan hotel. Making up and making love. Troy swore our love was worth the risk. He said he’d give up ten companies to keep me in his life. To keep me safe.

He also promised he had a couple of tricks up his sleeve.

Monday morning, bright and early, Max and Troy issued a press release announcing an independent external review for the company. I doubt the SEC had even finished their first cup of coffee that day. The action immediately changed the speculation—the narrative—as in the eyes of the world, Table went from “being under investigation” to “this crew has nothing to hide.” It was a genius move, getting ahead of the problem before it truly became one. Super genius because it also neutralized my dad’s power.

Of course, it helped that I recorded my last conversation with him, the one where I promised I’d leave Troy, that I’d toe the line in exchange for him calling off his regulatory dogs. Lucky for us, but not so much for him, he boasted how far his reach was and even mentioned the name of his SEC contact.

Like a good daughter, I sent him a copy of the recording. He got what I was putting down, which saved us a dramatic confrontation. Safe to say we’re still estranged two years later.

I don’t cry over that.

I’m so happy these days. I have a home with Troy, a relationship with his sweet mother, and I exist in a place where I’m loved and adored. Somewhere I’m valued and listened to . . . even if I sometimes need to make sure I haven’t hypnotized my husband with my boobs. Apparently, they have a tendency to make his ears turn off.

We finished decorating the rest of the apartment together, which basically meant Troy just said yes to everything I showed him. Happy wife, happy life, right? And I am happy. So very happy. We’ve laughed and fought (mostly over the validity of wallpaper) and christened every single one of the rooms. Even the outdoor shower. My life is the very essence of wedded bliss.

On the work front, my fund launched three months ago to the pops of champagne corks and bottle caps at the party we threw for our friends. It’s hard to believe some days that what began as a conversation in our fake marital bed now supports two community-backed housing initiatives, and three women-led fintech ventures in their early stages. We’re a young fund, but we’re exciting, and we have many plans. I couldn’t be prouder of our work.

“You’re smiling.”

“Is that a problem?” I ask, angling my attention his way.