Page 18 of A Queen and HER Bad Boy (Spies and Royals #4)

“No.” Not without trying this crazy wand first. He tried to pull himself together.

“Wait, wait… the mascara’s next.” Taking a deep breath, she pushed the whole bag of makeup at him. “You might as well go all in.”

He grinned, knowing she was nervous but taking that as permission anyway. “Oh, you won’t be sorry.”

Maybe she might be, a little…

“And… and if you poke me in the eye with that—”

“What do you take me for—an ape?” He undid the mascara top, making exaggerated monkey noises while brandishing the odd piece of makeup like a tiny sword…

except he wanted to do this right. It was time to get serious.

Holding his breath, he leaned closer. She leaned away, flinching as the bristled wand moved closer to her eye.

He inched forward until he had her pressed up against the mirror.

He concentrated on brushing the wand over dusky lashes that were already long and thick.

His mouth went dry. He noticed she was clasping his shoulder to steady herself, her breath soft against his neck.

His fingers shook on the other eye, and she blinked, putting a black smear under her lid. “Huh,” he muttered. He stepped back.

“What? What did you do?”

“Nothing, nothing, just…” He spit on his finger and reached for her eye.

“Achilles!” She caught his wrist, her fingers circling his pulse point. “You’re not putting your spit on me!”

“Fine! Fine. Let me fix it. Hold still.” He rubbed away the black smudge under her eye. It only seemed to get worse, smearing across her cheek. He reached for the biggest, fluffiest makeup brush she had. “Let’s try some rouge now,” he said.

“If you make me look like a clown…?”

“You’ll be the cutest clown I’ve ever seen.”

She blushed but also looked pleased—it had been days since she’d seemed so genuinely happy, and his heart soared at making her smile.

Just because he wasn’t touching her didn’t mean that they couldn’t be the friends they used to be!

Oh, she didn’t need the rouge anymore. Immediately, he decided that his favorite thing in life was making her blush.

He stared at her, completely mesmerized. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered.

That blush began crawling down her neck, a delicate pink flush spreading like watercolor on silk.

He was fascinated. He ran his fingers across the warm skin, watching the color deepen under his touch.

He met her eyes, seeing how she watched him.

If he was afraid of getting her emotionally invested, then he’d already failed.

That girl wore her heart in her eyes. His own heart lurched in response. Her lips parted on a soft breath.

Achilles dropped the brush and pressed her back against the mirror.

Was he kissing her? Yes, he was! His lips smudged all that strawberry flavored lip gloss from her mouth down to her chin in his eagerness.

And then he found her hair, like he’d wanted to do all morning, easing it from that elastic holder.

A knock sounded somewhere beyond their door. He turned with a growl, trying to remember exactly where he was, what he was doing, and who was coming to interrupt their privacy.

“That’s breakfast.” Her voice sounded husky, breathless.

He stepped back while she wiped the lipstick away from her mouth and then her eyes widened as her gaze latched onto his lips.

“Oh, you’ve got me on you. Hold—” She reached up to clean his lips with her thumb.

He felt frozen. She was saying something. What?

“Your bacon is here.”

Who wanted bacon, needed bacon, craved bacon?

His hands were back around her, and he kissed that smile until it danced around his own lips.

He drew back enough to look at his breathless wife, searching her expression, feeling her fingers dig into his sides while her heart raced against his.

So far, she was still his Bris, though perhaps a very disoriented one.

Her hair was everywhere now, just like it should be, and he smoothed down the messy strands, feeling that familiar protective instinct overcome him and also something else—shame, hot and bitter in his throat.

Ugh! Venice! How was he supposed to keep back from his own wife?

He couldn’t take this anymore! “Maybe we need to quit the makeup tutorial for now.” His voice was rougher than intended.

She twisted around to the mirror and let out a laugh when she saw the mascara smudge. “My eye! How could you even think of wanting to kiss me with my eye looking like that?”

He’d kiss her even if she was dripping in that stuff. He swallowed hard. Yeah, not getting enough sleep last night was a very bad idea. He was doing this all wrong—Venice would rearrange his face, man, he should punch himself. “Bris… we can’t do this.”

She spun back around to face him, her expression shifting from playful to guarded. “We can’t?”

“I’m supposed to watch out for you, and this is all happening so fast. I could really hurt you…”

“How?”

“What if…” He couldn’t think of a reason right now. He latched onto one that was halfway logical. “What if this doesn’t work?”

She turned silent. Her thick hair shifted over her face and delicate shoulders as she leaned forward. Her fingers clasped the edge of the counter until her knuckles went white. “Why won’t it work?”

She wasn’t going to make this easy on him, was she?

“We made our vows, I get that, but none of us really wanted to do it. Your father forced us both into it, and… what kind of marriage is that?”

“Oh…” It came out as a breath, like he’d knocked the wind from her lungs.

“I thought… well, maybe we could…” She stopped short, and he noticed that familiar look of defiance run through her expression before her lips twisted into a fragile smile.

“No, you’re right. My father doesn’t run our lives.

” She swallowed hard, the sound audible in the sudden quiet. “Let’s eat some breakfast.”

He felt like he was missing something crucial. No explosion. No sassy comeback. Just walls slamming down between them. He touched her arm gently. “Are you okay?”

“Yes! Of course. Yes!” He didn’t trust that bright look she’d plastered to her face, and his stomach clenched when that fleeting look of pain was quickly concealed.

He was no longer a participant, not even a viewer, but a stranger locked out from the innermost workings of Bris.

“I was being such a puppet. Gross,” she said with forced lightness.

“We’re not like other people. Totally.” She hopped down from the counter. “Friends?”

His stomach dropped like a stone. “Always.” And this conversation did not go the way he wanted. In all honesty, he wasn’t sure how he’d wanted this talk to end. He didn’t even know what he was going for exactly, but now it all felt wrong.

Something was wrong… but he was right, wasn’t he? Protecting her meant protecting her from himself. He wasn’t worthy of her—she’d figure that out in time.

Bris headed for the door, her shapely legs shifting the knit of that treacherous rugby shirt that made her look all cute and touchable.

Her hair slapped against her back. He gulped, remembering his hillbilly fantasy from earlier.

She stopped before she reached the door and turned to him, her face pale. “You still think I’m… beautiful?”

How could she even question that? “Stunning,” he answered truthfully.

She nodded, though strangely, she looked a little crestfallen too. “Oh… good. C’mon, let’s eat. I’m starving!”

And he’d lost his appetite. A usual occurrence around here.