Page 57 of Carry On

“No to getting married?”

“No to stud muffin.”

“Okay, buttercup.”

CHAPTER 41

LINCOLN

Well,”IbeganasI drew in a deep breath, “I’m fairly certain everyone I work with will know I’m married before I even walk through the front door next week.”

I knew the judge.

I knew his secretary.

I ran into three lawyers I knew on our way out.

And for a bunch of people who worked in a confidentiality-based field, they all liked the gossip. Oh, and most of them didn’t know that I was bisexual. We made fantastic gossip fodder, and I wasn’t looking forward to returning to the office.

“Why didn’t we go to a courthouse you don’t work out of?” Nash asked. I opened my mouth and promptly closed it. “You didn’t think about that, did you, criminal?”

“I did not,” I admitted. The slow smile that spread on his handsome face was tantalizing in a way I didn’t need it to be. I forced my attention down on my plate as a distraction.

Short of my minor panic spiral, the wedding had gone off without a hitch. The judge was surprised to see me, but he didn’t make a bigger deal than necessary. He gave us the standard congratulatory wedding shit. His secretary was equally happy for us.

Nash fell all too easily into pretending alongside me. While he was quiet and not too interactive, he still played the part in front of everyone.

“It feels weird,” Nash commented. I glanced up at the sound of his voice and saw him twisting the white gold wedding ring around on his finger. I knew what he meant. The ring was heavy around mine as well, foreign but not entirely uncomfortable. That singular notion bothered me. I didn’t need to get comfortable with a wedding ring around my finger again.

“You can take it off,” I told him.

“Nah, I’m committed to this cheap monstrosity,” he said.

“A lot of people don’t wear their wedding rings,” I pointed out. I didn’t want him to feel like he had to wear the thing. Admittedly, it didn’t help that the rings weren’t fake like I’d intended. For whatever dumb reason, I’d bought us real wedding rings. Thatcheap monstrosityaround his finger probably cost more than everything he owned and then some. But instead of telling him that, I’d lied like an idiot, and now I was committed to that lie. “How’s the food?”

Rule number eight meant I had to back out of his food habits. I’d hovered enough to piss him off, so much so that he’d left for two days. I damn near crawled out of my skin during that time. The visceral response his absence created in me was borderline disturbing. I didn’t chase him, but I wanted to.

“I can’t remember the last time I had a steak,” he admitted.

Understandable. He had steak and potatoes along with vegetables on his plate. He picked at them, eating the smallest of bites. His expansion in food included a variety of options, all in small amounts. It was progress, and it showed in his appearance, in how his body had begun to fill out. That fact I refused to openly acknowledge.

“Or potatoes,” he continued. I just nodded because steak and potatoes weren’t enough to distract my brain from this whole thing. It wasn’t even the judge or any of that. No, it was the weird feeling twisting its way through my gut—that familiarity and comfort of being around someone in such a capacity.

They were dangerous feelings to have, ones that ebbed their way to the surface every once in a while when I spent too much time around him. When he played guitar. When he fell asleep on the couch. Those little moments got to me, and that scared me.

“Get out of your head, Linc,” Nash said as he picked up his glass to take a slow sip.

“I’m not in my head,” I retorted quickly, shaking my head. The look on his face told me he didn’t believe me.

“Does this thing have a shelf life?” he asked instead.

“All alcohol does—”

“You and me,” he interrupted. “This arrangement between us… does it have a shelf life?”

“Oh.” I clicked my tongue. Admittedly, I’d thought about that question a few too many times without avail. The variables were far too many to pin down. Who knew how long it would take to figure out his health issues? “I don’t know.”

“Me either,” he replied. Oh, well. At least that made two of us. He tilted his glass in my direction slightly, saying, “To felonies, not relationships.”