“Tomorrow’s Chantal’s art gallery event,” he grunts suddenly. The first words he’s spoken to me in days. His fingers are fast on his shirt buttons, undoing them before he slides the shirt off altogether. “We’re still going.”
I catch his reflection in the mirror, surprised despite myself. I assumed we were no longer attending. We’d agreed to go back when we were still pretending to get along.
He must read the question on my face because his lips curl into a sneer. “Why would I go back on my word? I said we would go, so we’ll go. Unlike some people, I’m not a liar. I don’t double-cross.”
I catch the barb with irritation instantly spiking through me. I spin around on the vanity stool with a retort burning on my tongue.
It’s still not quick enough. He’s already disappearing into the bathroom, the door slamming shut behind him.
The night of Chantal’s gallery event comes faster than I’d like. It feels like I blink and the next thing I know, I’m dressed up for the event.
I’m wearing a strapless midi dress in a nude tone that complements my brown complexion. Romantic and feminine black roses adorn the dress, trailing across the bodice and cascading toward the hem.
I’ve clipped my hair up in a simple twist, leaving a few tendrils loose to frame my face. My jewelry’s minimal though admittedly expensive and tasteful, and I’ve finished the outfit off with some strappy sandal heels.
I’m fully aware of how good I look. Most men would jump to have me on their arm.
Ronan emerges from his shower already dressed. He strides back into the bedroom and makes my heart flutter despite my mind’s protests.
He looks… good. Really fucking good.
Frustratingly good. Irritatingly fine and sexy.
I cross my arms and sulk as my husband proves once again that we’re undeniably attracted to each other.
He’s kept things simple—a classic black button-down shirt and slacks, both fitted to highlight his solid, toned frame. His dark brownish red hair is pushed back from his face with the casual slide of his hand, like he couldn’t be bothered to properly tame it with a comb and product.
But it somehow works for him; it adds to his rough, uncouth vibe.
Right down to the way he carries himself.
We both freeze once we accidentally make eye contact.
A couple seconds pass where we’re stuck in time, obviously attracted and drawn to each other.
His green eyes almost darken as they track me, traveling over me inch by inch, lingering on various curves like my cleavage and how shapely my hips look in this dress.
I recognize the flicker of heat in them. The lust he feels the moment he begrudgingly drinks me in and knows he likes what he sees.
We’re just both too stubborn to ever admit it, so we say nothing at all.
The drive to the west side of Manhattan is equally as unbearable and awkward. I accidentally catch a whiff of his cologne as we settle into the backseat. The warm, smoky notes tease my senses and make my pulse quicken.
It’s a masculine scent I’ve grown way too used to over the past few weeks; a scent that signifies the sexual chemistry between me and my husband, regardless of how much I hate him.
We sit in silence during the ride to the art gallery. I turn my face toward the window and watch the city buildings and lights zip past.
Ronan’s busied himself with his phone. Any excuse so we don’t have to confront how moments like these will be the rest of our lives.
When we arrive at the art gallery, I’m genuinely surprised by what greets us.
The event is more prestigious than I anticipated, impressively guarded with professional security stationed outside the door and velvet ropes lining the entrance.
A steady influx of well-dressed guests is ushered inside, one by one like the VIPs they are.
I knew Chantal’s gallery was doing well. She’s been working tirelessly for the past couple years to build her reputation in the art world, but I had no idea her events had become some hyper upscale, big-money affairs.
As we step inside, I recognize several high rollers scattered throughout the room.