Page 21 of Dearly Unbeloved (Spicy in Seattle #3)

SIERRA

Did you seriously replace the flowers I threw out? One. Vase. It’s a rule, not a suggestion. - R

I mean, would I have been awake anyway, since Dibbles and Thorne demand food at seven on the dot every morning?

Sure, but I could be snuggled up in bed watching them eat their breakfast greens.

Instead, I’m sitting cross-legged on the floor beside the new enclosure Maggie made them, wearing a bra and pants at this godforsaken hour, hand feeding them long pieces of kale with my eyes closed.

Their happy little crunches have quickly become one of my favorite sounds. Unlike the soft footsteps that approach.

“Morning, babies,” Rose coos, and I force my eyes open to watch her crouching down to scratch them both between their ears. Considering how pissed off she was when I brought them home, she sure has come around. I swear she’s like a different person with them.

I didn’t realize she could be so nice with her clothes on. Who knew?

Her happy expression disappears when she looks at me. “Do you want to pick up coffee on?—”

“Yes.”

“Alright, grumpy. Let’s go.”

I bite my tongue, trying not to snap at her as I trail her to the front door, well aware that I agreed to this trip when she asked. Did I agree only because I’d just brought home the bunnies and she was already mad? Maybe, but a deal’s a deal. And I do like hiking—at a more civilized hour.

Rose is wearing black leggings she usually wears for running, a cream tank, and an oversized plaid shirt, the color of fall leaves, that makes the gold in her eyes pop.

It’s a cute outfit, but she ruins it completely when she sits down on the bench by the door and pulls a pair of boots out of a bag.

“What the fuck are those?”

She furrows her brow at me, pausing with one boot halfway up her calf. “They’re boots. For hiking.”

“No. They’re metallic pink cowboy boots. Where the hell did they come from?” I’m not a cowboy boot fan at the best of times, but these are… hideous. Shiny and garish, in a shade of pink that’s somewhere between Pepto-Bismol and shrimp.

“I borrowed them from Jazz. I don’t have hiking boots, and she wore these when she went hiking on her honeymoon.”

Of course they’re Jazz’s. I have a vague memory of her claiming to be in her cowboy boot era for a couple of weeks last year, when she started wearing black boots to work, and I’m not surprised she bought multiple pairs. Naturally, I haven’t seen her in a single pair of boots in months.

“You can’t wear those. They’re not hiking boots.” It’s too fucking early for this.

“Jazz said they were comfy!” Rose protests, and I palm my face. Jesus.

“Jazz didn’t go hiking on her honeymoon. Yes, they went to see a mountain with the intention of climbing it, but they just took pictures from the ground, then went back to the hotel and… climbed each other.”

Disgust contorts her face, and she drops the boots. “Oh my god. In the boots?”

“I don’t have that much detail, and I don’t want it. But you can’t wear those. What shoe size are you?”

“An eight.”

“I’m a nine. Go put on some thicker socks and I’ll grab my spare pair.”

The only reason I find my spares quickly is because I pulled everything out of my closet looking for the sweatshirt I’m wearing this morning. I make a feeble attempt to push some of the mess back into the closet before giving up and heading into Rose’s room.

She’s perched on the edge of the bed, tugging fluffy off-white socks over her feet. I kneel down and pull her foot toward me, but she pulls it back .

“What are you doing?”

“Putting the hiking boots on you.”

“Why?” She sounds more disgusted than she did when I told her about Jazz and Liam’s honeymoon activities.

“We’re about to spend hours pretending to be newlyweds. I’m reminding myself to act couple-y.”

She huffs, but doesn’t complain as I slide her feet into the boots and set them on my thighs to tie the laces in tight knots.

Standing and brushing my jeans off, I offer my hand. She grumbles when I tug her to her feet, but she still lets me.

“In the interest of acting couple-y, I have a present for you. I was going to give it to you tonight, but you might want to wear it.”

She hands me a small, thin black box I hadn’t noticed sitting on her nightstand. It’s clearly jewelry. Why the hell is my semi-fake wife buying me jewelry?

I flip open the box and gasp, my heart racing and my blood warming. The gold chain glitters in the glow of the sunlight creeping through Rose’s blinds, and I run my finger across the dainty links.

“Is this… a collar?”

“Yes,” Rose replies, watching me curiously.

“You said you were intrigued by the concept and I…” She trails off, toying with her ring as if it’s subconscious at this point.

“I like the ring. Seeing you in the ring, I mean. The claiming, mine kind of thing really does it for me. But I know you’re struggling with the marriage side of things, so I haven’t been focusing on it.

I don’t want to take you out of your head, but I thought this could be a good alternative. ”

It’s surprisingly thoughtful, and really, really fucking hot. I’ve always liked being marked by my partners—a bite, a bruise, a handprint here or there. And like Rose, I find our rings such a turn-on. Just a… conflicting one.

I’ve imagined being collared before, but I’ve never been with someone long enough to bring it up.

Collaring means different things to different people—for some, it’s a bigger commitment than marriage.

For others, it’s purely sexual. But it feels fitting for the weird little situation Rose and I have crashed into.

“You picked this?” I ask, and she nods. “It’s so me.” It’s gorgeous, a gold chain and two beautiful roses that meet in the middle, connected by a gold ring.

“I know your taste. You leave your shit all over the place.” She sounds almost defensive, like it’s embarrassing to know anything about me.

Which is fucking stupid, considering we’ve lived together for a year and we kind of share family, albeit her by blood and me by employment.

You don’t have to like someone to pay attention.

I pull it from the box and hold it up to the light. There’s a small gold clasp-type thing joining the chain at the back, but not any kind I recognize.

“It’s a lock,” Rose says, holding her hand out for the box.

When I pass it over, she pulls out the velvet lining and dangles a tiny key.

“It’s designed to break if someone tugs it, or if you need to take it off in an emergency, but otherwise, you need the key to open it.

The locking is optional, and you can keep the key yourself if you want.

You don’t have to wear it all the time like some people do.

Hell, you don’t have to wear it at all. I just thought.

..” Her nervous rambles fade off into nothing.

“Shit, this was a stupid idea. Forget about it.”

“I want to wear it,” I say, holding the collar out of her reach when she grabs for it. “And I want you to keep the key. Will you put it on me?”

Her eyebrows rise a fraction, like she didn’t expect I’d say yes, but she nods.

I turn my back on her and start to move my hair out of the way, but Rose stops me.

She gathers my hair in her hand, her fingers brushing the nape of my neck softly and deliberately.

I pass her the collar, and she moves my hair over my shoulder before taking it and looping it around my neck.

The metal is cool against my skin, but Rose’s fingers are anything but.

My skin burns everywhere she touches as she settles the collar around my throat.

She clips the clasp together, and I feel a tiny click as she locks it in place.

Her fingers linger on the lock, and I watch her eyes flame in the full-length mirror on the back of her closet door.

She likes that I’m locked into this, and she likes that she was the one to do it.

And fuck, I do too. My heart is beating so hard, I’m surprised I can’t hear it. Part of me wants to forgo the hike, to stay home and walk backward until we’re both a tangle of limbs in her bed. The other part of me wants to take the collar out and show it off, a mere necklace to the untrained eye.

If I know Rose, and, at this point, I reckon I do, she hates that she likes this so much.

Which explains the thin set of her mouth, despite her blown pupils, as she pulls my hair back over my shoulder and rests her hand flat on my throat, right below the collar, her eyes glued to our reflections.

She brushes the chain with her thumb and blows out a long breath that teeters somewhere between resigned and pissed off.

Her gaze flicks up, meeting mine in the mirror. “It looks good on you.”

I hum in agreement, raising my hand to rest it on top of hers. Of course, she can’t have that. She lifts her hand and traps mine below it, both of us lightly holding my throat.

“Maybe we should stay home,” she murmurs, her other hand creeping around my body. She slips her fingers beneath the waistband of my pants, and my breath catches in my throat, my mind hazy with lust.

The hike. Rose befriending her colleagues. Her promotion. My inheritance. Our… divorce.

The thought is like a slap to the face, dousing me in ice water. I pull out of her grip.

“Later. Let’s go show your colleagues how sickeningly in love we are.”