Page 17 of A Queen and HER Bad Boy (Spies and Royals #4)

Chapter Eight

—About a day of stewing—

B ris reached around Achilles to get to her toothbrush at the vanity.

“I got it.” He handed it carefully to her and went right back to flossing his teeth. Someone didn’t get the memo that they weren’t touching. And he might as well be directing that lecture at himself. He couldn’t keep back from her lately… only when he’d physically distanced himself.

He sighed inwardly. How much longer could he take? His self-discipline was wearing thin after too many days of fighting the worst of his nature.

How long had they been married? More than a week? And who was he kidding? This had been going on for years. Keeping his best friend’s little sister at arm’s length had been a lifelong battle. And he was expected to keep at it when she was his wife? The fates weren’t playing fair anymore.

She leaned over the sink, his rugby shirt swinging against her legs. She’d thrown a hoodie over it this time, but she’d definitely stolen his shirt for her own. The sight of her drowning in his clothes still drove him crazy. “Didn’t you get some new nighties with that shopping spree of yours?”

And why did he sound so testy? He was even annoying himself.

She shrugged, like she wasn’t aware that his sanity hinged on her answer. “These are soft, and I like them.”

So did he. Too much. And he liked her in the morning without all that makeup she thought she needed too.

She looked… cute, like backwoods-adorable with her hair pulled into a messy ponytail and sleep still softening her features.

He found himself imagining tugging that elastic band free and playing with the dark strands.

What would it be like if they were just a normal couple, in a normal place, without the weight of a kingdom pressing down on them?

And she’d caught him staring. Again! Her lips puckered in irritation.

She was still mad about him dripping pool water all over their bathroom floor this morning.

“Are you glaring at me?” he asked. He hated when they were fighting—well, real fighting.

He enjoyed the fake stuff. “It’s not even eight o’clock yet. ”

“Eight?” Her eyes ran to her watch, and she talked around her toothbrush. “We can’t be late to the reception this afternoon. The Marquess of Pedasus will be there to evaluate our… suitability.”

Her words became completely garbled as his attention wandered back to how he’d caught her rehearsing elaborate curtsies in the mirror late into the night.

He’d even heard a whispered, “My Lord.” Of course, the second she’d spotted him watching, she graciously invited him to practice his brooding scowls when she was through.

He chuckled aloud, and she tilted her head, looking offended. Great! He must’ve laughed at something serious she’d just said.

Dahh! He needed more sleep.

After swimming laps until his shoulders screamed, he’d attacked the weights next and had pushed himself to failure before he’d trusted himself to crawl back to his couch a little past four in the morning.

“By the way… I paid for that shopping spree myself!” She waved her toothbrush at him. “I don’t depend on Deedeelicious or anybody else for my income!”

Was she still harping on about that? He’d moved on from that viral video… well, mostly, when that kiss wasn’t replaying through his thoughts on repeat like a kid rewatching the same Disney princess movie until the parents hid the remote.

He nodded like she hadn’t just given him whiplash with her change of subject. “Okay, you convinced me—we won’t bring Deedeelicious here to raise money. We’ll think of something else to fund your wardrobe…”

And why couldn’t he stop teasing her? He knew she was sensitive about her spending.

His self-control was hitting new lows. Her eyes widened, and she swung away.

With difficulty, he kept his gaze from drifting to her glittery green toenail polish.

Okay, idiot… quit melting every time you think of her giving up her stupid designer shoes!

And was he staring again? What a fool. Utter fool. He turned away, although seeing himself in the mirror was a lot less interesting than taking in this new fairy-like creature that Bris had suddenly become.

She spit out her toothpaste in the sink. “I don’t need anybody’s money! I have plenty of it.”

His hackles rose at the haughty tone. “Is that so? Little Princess Prissy Poo’s got truckloads of money.” He gave her and his “borrowed” Rugby shirt a pointed look, taking in how the oversized jersey hung past her hips. “Doesn’t stop you from stealing my clothes.”

“Oh, you want your shirt back?” She’d reached the breaking point.

“No!” He turned quickly with a bark of nervous laughter. Be strong! He lifted his phone to his ear to order breakfast.

Peder was quick to answer. “Good morning, Your Royal Highness. What’s on the menu today?”

“Everything,” he said, putting down the floss, “but especially meat. Bacon, lots of bacon and sausage. Eggs. Orange juice. Chocolate milk.”

He did that for Bris’s benefit. She glanced at him over the sink with a toss of her shoulders. “You just brushed your teeth.”

“And I like a clean palate.” Didn’t everybody?

She tossed her shoulders and reached around him again.

The tickle of her fingertips against his back made him stiffen, every nerve ending firing as she balanced herself against him, her small hands pressing into his shoulder blades before she placed her toothbrush back in its holder and slid past him to return to the sink. “You’re such a man!”

And she was such a woman. He was openly gawking now, watching her every graceful movement as she washed her face and began applying lotion.

He could still feel the ghost of her fingers sizzling across his skin.

This morning routine of hers was fascinating, and he found himself loitering there, moving the floss around the counter and pretending to comb his hair, just to see how far this process went.

She rolled open her bag of face brushes, powders, lipsticks, and other assorted gear, each of them in their own specified pocket. She was an artist… her face the masterpiece—too bad his spoiled little dove knew it.

“Seriously, why aren’t we done yet?” she cried. “We have to meet the Marquess as soon as he flies in—”

“Oh no! Are you kidding me?” He tried to tease away that worried wrinkle against her forehead. She was far too stressed. “That’s at four. We only have eight hours to put you together!”

“Phoenix is going to be livid! We should’ve been out the door five minutes ago.”

“Too bad it takes you forever to get ready…” And he knew he was playing with fire with that one, probably why he couldn’t stop the grin tugging at his lips.

But the joke landed—she laughed under her breath. “You’re lucky you don’t have to deal with makeup, buddy. I’d like to see you do it faster.”

“Bring it on,” he said. “It can’t be that hard—give me your face.” He scooted the makeup bag closer so he could peer inside the mysterious collection of tubes and compacts. “Where do we start?”

“No, no.” She shook her head, quickly pulling the bag protectively toward herself. “I’m terrified of what I’d look like after you were through with me. We are trying to keep from scaring off the Marquess today.”

“That’s easy! Three curtseys and don’t bring up banking.”

“Very funny. We’re already on thin ice. If we fail the High Consortium’s inspection, my father will have our heads.”

“I’d better take over then. This is an emergency.” He pulled out the mascara, examining the tiny wand like it was a surgical instrument. “We’ve got a lot of work ahead of us.”

Her chin lowered as she hid another smile. “If you do that…” She tugged out a device that looked like a tiny guillotine on a stick, “then you’d better learn how to use the eyelash curler.”

He snatched it from her hands, closing it and opening it with a soft clicking sound. “Okay, get over here.”

“Achilles! I take it back…” She inched forward anyway. His heart was melting at her mixture of terror and trust, and something in him broke—or was it a release? Looking at her—really looking at her—he found the reason behind all his sleepless nights.

And she was also too short for him to see her face clearly.

He grabbed her by the waist and set her on the marble counter.

She let out a surprised yelp, almost echoed by his own sharp intake of breath at feeling her smooth skin.

After all those reps yesterday, she was lighter than he expected, her body warm and soft beneath his hands.

Time to try out all these mysterious brushes and colors on her. He pressed closer, feeling her bare legs against him. She pushed her palm into his chest when he leaned closer, her touch burning into his bare skin. “Okay, Picasso,” she said, “maybe we should start with the easy stuff first.”

“What’s that?”

She bit her lip, the gesture making his pulse spike. “ChapStick?”

He made a face. “It better be bright red or I’m not doing it.”

“The lip gloss.” She picked up her bag, searching through the colors, her fingers dancing between tiny containers like a pianist selecting notes. She pulled out a glittery pink one in a tiny round container. “There you go!”

He supposed that would do. And it was so small—his fingers could barely get in there. Dipping in his pinky instead, he caught some of the gelled color and moved toward her lips.

The soft warmth beneath his fingertip made his breath catch when he touched the gloss to her mouth. Maybe he’d better start questioning his life choices.

She watched him closely while he did it, her eyes wide and trusting.

What perfume was she wearing? She smelled like vanilla and strawberries, sweet enough to make his mouth water.

He noticed the gentle rise and fall of her shoulders with each breath, the way her pulse fluttered in the delicate hollow of her throat.

“Are you done?” she asked him. There was a challenge in her voice.