Page 42 of Carry On (Love Doesn’t Cure All #4)

LINCOLN

Well,” I began as I 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.

That cheap monstrosity around 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.”

I reciprocated the notion.

“To felonies, not relationships,” I murmured before I took a long sip. And then I dropped it because the last thing I needed was for my brain to obsess over the non-existent relationship between me and Nash.

“I think the fucker doesn’t recognize me,” Nash was saying as we exited the elevator on our floor.

“Be nice,” I retorted, rolling my eyes over his commentary about Gene, the front desk guy. “You’ve lived here for two weeks.”

“I am nice,” he said. “I’m just saying I don’t think he recognizes me. Just wait until the senile witch upstairs realizes I live here now.”

Ah, yes. They had yet to cross paths, and I wasn’t looking forward to it. She was bound to have opinions that I’d be stuck listening to. She always did.

I let us in the condo, making a quick mental note to get a copy of the key made for him. Somehow, I hadn’t done that yet. With everything else going on, I just hadn’t thought of it.

As I started to walk away from him, ready to end the night, Nash grabbed my arm.

I made a ridiculous sound as he pushed me up against the wall.

Before I could say a word, his mouth found mine.

His body pressed hard against mine, and instantly, every nerve lit up with all the lust-fueled need I buried whenever I was around him.

From the way his thickening cock rolled against mine, I wasn’t the only one.

“What’re you—”

He kissed me again, drawing a loud moan out of me. The way his mouth moved taunted me. Teased me. Drove me insane. And when his tongue stroked mine? I was fucking gone.

He broke the kiss, breathing hard with me, but he didn’t pull away. From the hold I had on his lapels, I wasn’t about to let him leave anyway. Two weeks of nothing had me wound up and desperate, ready to fall apart after just a taste.

“Isn’t there a law saying we have to consummate the marriage for it to be legal?” he whispered.

“Don’t think that’s on the insurance form,” I muttered. Capturing his bottom lip, I dragged my teeth over it and enjoyed the growl it pulled from him.

“And what if they ask?” he countered.

“I don’t kiss and tell.” And I definitely wasn’t fucking around and telling either.

“I think we need to be thorough, hot stuff,” Nash insisted. His lips and teeth drifted along my jaw, alternating between soft kisses and nips. I practically vibrated out of my skin with my need for him.

Fuck it. He was right. We needed to be thorough.