Page 57 of Killer Honeymoon
“Yep. We’ll pair them with the dressier shirts, boat shoes, and our designer watches.” Sawyer chuckled. “Hell, the watches alone would probably get us into any high-roller event.”
Royce looked down at the watch Sawyer had gifted him and scowled. “How much is this thing worth?”
Oops.How could he turn back time and not speak the last part? “It’s the thought that counts,” he said on his way to the bathroom. Royce got quiet, which always spelled trouble. Too late, Sawyer realized Royce had probably done an internet search on the phone he’d tossed onto the bed earlier.
“Sawyer!” he roared from the bedroom. “You bought me a watch that cost five thousand dollars. How the hell can I top such a generous gift?”
Sawyer poked his head out of the bathroom. “It’s vintage, and I found it at a secondhand shop. I didn’t pay five grand for it.” He’d only paid thirty-five hundred dollars, but Royce didn’t need to know that.
“Oh, that’s good,” Royce replied. “Wait, how much of a bargain are we talking about here?”
“Did I ask you how much you spent on my engagement ring?”
“No. But that’s different.”
“How so?” Sawyer asked, then waited for Royce to come up with a rebuttal.
“It just is.”
“Well,” Sawyer said thoughtfully, “it’s hard to fault such solid logic. I promise never to buy you pretty things again.”
Royce narrowed his eyes. “I think I’m getting played.” Then he laughed. “And I’m just too fucking happy to care.”
They waited until after dark before heading to Hooligan’s. They’d have more luck once the liquor loosened lips, but mostly, they lingered at home to embrace the peace and quiet.
“This honeymoon isn’t what we anticipated,” Royce said as they strolled toward the bar.
Sawyer bumped his shoulder against Royce’s. “Nothing ever is, especially when it comes to us.”
Royce felt Sawyer’s stare and turned his head to meet his gaze. Damn, those beautiful eyes could communicate so much. Just then, they were saying Royce was Sawyer’s entire universe. “I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Royce said.
“Nor I.”
The nightlife had resumed with the restored electricity. Music spilled into the streets from all the bars, creating the oddest mashup of techno, pop, country, and eighties hits, yet somehow it worked. The breeze kicked up, ruffling Royce’s hair and bringing a buffet of aromas just as varied as the music. He smelled the fruitiness of colorful cocktails, the earthiness of hops from the beer, grease from the oh-so-good bar food, and remnants of suntan oil lingering on the skin of those who hadn’t stopped partying long enough to grab a shower yet.
“I’m glad you feel that way,” Royce said, “because I fear my bad luck is as invasive as the trumpet creepers in our garden.”
Sawyer snorted. “I call bullshit.”
“Seriously, those little shoots get everywhere,” Royce said. “You have to eradicate them down to the roots.”
“I wasn’t talking about the vines. I don’t believe people are assigned good or bad luck.”
“How do you describe people who always seem to be stepping into something or finding trouble?” Royce asked.
“First of all, I would never assign those scenarios to you,” Sawyer said. “I think those types of people tend to be poor planners. They’re unprepared, shoot from the hip, and are constantly running behind. I think the combination naturally leads to bad decisions.”
Royce studied Sawyer. “And you seriously don’t think I’m impulsive?”
Sawyer smiled. “Only in the hardware store and our bed. You let your guard down there and go wild.” He shot Royce a playful wink and squeezed his hand. “You use an impetuous façade to lead your prey into a false sense of security. People tend not to take you seriously until it’s too late. You even move like a deadly jungle cat.”
Damn, his husband was brilliant. “Just in case,” Royce said, “I think I should light some sage or something before I begin the next phase of my career. I don’t want this chaos to follow me.”
Sawyer laughed and shook his head. “Where did you hear about smudging?”
“My aunt Tipsy,” Royce replied. “My dad used to call her a witch. He was terrified of her, and she stood barely over five feet.”
“I wish I could’ve met her.”