The alarm goes off with its familiar blare, and for as much fun as I had yesterday with the guys, it’s a little disappointing to start Monday morning without much time alone with Evie. Her drunken ramblings throughout the night didn’t help, and while I drag myself from the warm cocoon of blankets to take a quick shower, I wish I could ditch work to stay in bed all day next to her.
She could probably say the same. Even though the girls had her home by eleven, I’m not sure how much rest she got. At least four times during the night, she woke me by talking in her sleep. It shouldn’t worry me—probably caused by the drinking and the stress of our big day—but I don’t like that every word out of her mouth had to do with cheating. I have no doubts that Evie is completely faithful, but is she worried about me? And days before we make a lifelong commitment before our closest family and friends? I wonder if I’ve pushed too hard, too quickly, in my absolute excitement to make her my wife. Maybe I’ve put my own desires first when she’s not yet ready.
I step out of the shower and am surprised to find the bed empty. Pulling on my clothes, I finish getting ready for work and then follow the aroma of brewing coffee from down the hall.
I bite back a smile at her out of control hair, which could also be mistaken for a bird’s nest. “Rough night?” The makeup around her eyes forms dark, thick circles and only adds to the glare she shoots from over her coffee mug. She’s still the most beautiful woman I know.
“I’m never drinking again.”
Pouring myself a cup of joe, I join her at the table. “I’m okay with that.”
“I mean it, Tate. We may have to toast our marriage with apple cider, because the thought of anything else is enough to make me barf on my gown.”
“We can’t have that. But I like the thought of not drinking at our wedding.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because when I take you back to the hotel, I want you one hundred percent in control of your feelings and actions. I want you tofeeleverything I do to you.” My intent is clear and her eyes darken with my words.
“Mr. Reynolds, I like the way you think.”
“God, I can’t wait for that.” I groan and scoot my chair closer to her.
“About that. I read in one of my articles that lots of couples abstain from sex for a week or even a month before the wedding to make the consummation that much more special. It’s too late for a month, but ...”
“No.” I hate every woman who writes for wedding magazines. For even inventing the things in the first place. No sex for a week, voluntarily, is not my idea of a good time.
“Come on, Tate. It’s only a few days, and after reading the testimonials, I promise it’ll be worth it.” She bats those eyelashes and I might as well have a sign stamped on my forehead that says pushover. I honestly hate the idea, but I’ll do it for her.
“Okay,” I agree. Her lips pull into a smirk that says she knew I’d cave. “But only if we start tomorrow.”
She chuckles, but only once before she winces in pain. Hangovers tend to steal the humor from any situation. “We need to start now, babe. Our wedding night is only six days away. I think you can handle it.”
I take a long sip of my coffee, and attempt, unsuccessfully at that, not to notice the way her lips purse and blow softly over her mug. I can do this. I know I can. But it doesn’t seem like any fun. “Fine, we’ll follow your stupid rule,” I grumble and take a sip of coffee to replace the bitterness from giving in.
“None of my rules are stupid,” she declares smugly.
“Not being able to make love to my wife is stupid.” I refill my cup, topping it off to the brim, and turn back to catch one of her eyebrows rise.
“Future wife. And it’s only a couple of days. It will be so worth it.”
“I sure hope so,” I mutter.
“What is that supposed to mean?” she snaps and the words strike in that harsh tone I rarely hear directed my way.
My brows pull and I blink several times before giving the obvious explanation. “I just don’t like not being able to be with you whenever I want, Evie.”
“You’re with me now.” She straightens her spine.
A harsh breath escapes and I set down my cup. “That’s not what I mean.”
“What? Because it’s not good if we aren’t having sex?”
“Whoa.” I throw my hands up because I have no clue what has her so irritable. I think back to her sleep talking and nerves prickle my confidence. “Did something happen yesterday that you want to tell me about?”
I’m not often a jealous man, but then her eyes flash with hurt. What could have taken place to make my girl act this way? For the briefest of moments my chest fills with anger over the endless possibilities.
“Tell me,” I manage to growl without shouting or knocking my cup across the kitchen counter.
