Page 509 of The Morally Grey Billionaires Boxset

Edward

I hold the door to the car open. My wife swings her legs over the side and places her feet on the ground.

When I offer my hand, she hesitates, then takes it.

The breath I hadn’t been aware of holding rushes out of me.

Each time she doesn’t attempt to put distance between us, I send up a prayer.

Yep, me, the man who decided he didn’t want anything to do with HIM, apparently, can’t go an hour without beseeching Him to give me a chance to show my wife how much I love her.

How much I want her. How much I can’t do without her in my life.

My wife straightens, and when I take in that gorgeous turn of her stocking-clad ankles, that familiar bolt of lust squeezes my groin.

I shove it aside, continue my perusal up the flash of her legs, those thick thighs covered by a bright red coat that falls to below her knees.

It brings out the color in her cheeks and the golden streaks in her hair.

Yesterday, when I arrived with a blueberry-sated kid, as well as a housekeeper in tow with breakfast for her and Summer, she wouldn't meet my eyes.

But she didn't refuse my help when I plumped the pillows at her back, then placed the breakfast tray on her lap. She also didn’t mind when I broke off a piece of croissant and fed her, and she took the cup of the tea I poured her.

Then, I made sure to occupy the toddler while she and Summer visited.

After Summer left, I ran her a bath and waited outside while she bathed.

Then, I insisted she take a nap while I dismissed the housekeeper and cooked an early dinner for her.

We ate in front of the television, and when I pulled up another chick flick—The Fault In Our Stars—she didn’t protest. And when I pulled her close and offered her my shoulder and a box of tissue when she cried, she accepted both.

She fell asleep tucked into my side, and I carried her up to her room, tucked her in, and stretched out over the covers.

This morning over breakfast—which I’d cooked—I told her we were expected for dinner at G-Pa’s place to bring in the New Year.

I’d expected her to decline the invite, but she’d said she was happy to come.

Of course, she said she loves the old man, and she wants to see Tiny.

Clearly, the dog has a bigger share of affection than me. Not that I blame her.

It's a wonder she's even talking to me, after everything I told her. It's a wonder she hasn’t told me to fuck off. But that's my wife. Sweetness and honey and all things nice… And I so want to taste her again. I want to bury my nose in her hair and take a long sniff—I confess, I manage a quick one when I help her out of the car. I also savor the feel of her delicate fingers in mine as I lead her up the path to Arthur’s town house. And the warmth of her skin through the wool of her coat as I slide it off her shoulders. The creamy length of her throat, the nearness to her curves, the flare of her hips which pulled the dress tight across her rear… And fuck, the dress she’s wearing. It clings to her in all the right places, showing off her lush figure, and when she turns to look at me over her shoulder, I have to tear my gaze away from her butt and hand the coat over to Arthur’s staff.

Her cheeks have gone pink. So, she noticed me ogling her, but she doesn’t comment.

If anything, the gleam in her eyes indicates she’s pleased by my reaction.

I step past her and lead her to the living room, where the rest of the family is gathered.

We step inside the room and Sinclair claps me on the shoulder. "Good to see you man." I nod.

"Glad you both made it." He looks from me to my wife, then back at me. "What are you both drinking?"

"You the bartender? Why are you here anyway?” I tighten my stare.

"Arthur’s orders. Someone has to keep the peace while you Davenports trade scowls and looks which could tear the skin at ten paces."

"Count me out of that." I raise a shoulder.

His forehead wrinkles. "Thought you and Nathan were in competition for the CEO role."

"He can have it."

"You told him that yet?"

"I will. Also, sparkling water for me," I add.

"A glass of champagne would be nice." My wife nods.

"Coming up." Sinclair walks away.

I spot Summer across the room with her boy. She’s deep in conversation with Ava. I must stiffen because my wife turns to me. "You okay she’s here?"

"Are you okay she’s here?" I scan her features.

"She’s no threat to me," my wife murmurs.

"No one is a threat to you. You’re it for me."

She looks between my eyes, a troubled look on her features, then she turns away. "That must be her husband. Baron, is it?"

I take in the tall man with blonde hair who has his hand around her waist and I notice the baby carrier next to Ava.

I wait for the inevitable churning of my guts, that stabbing sensation in my chest, but there’s nothing.

Only the feel of her hand still in mine, of her presence next to me.

Unable to stop myself, I wrap my arm about her shoulder; that’s when she goes rigid.

At first, I think it's because of me, but then I look down at her face, to where she's eying a trio of woman gathered in a corner. The older among them has a pinched look to her features. She’s wearing a dress which accentuates her too-thin figure, the kind run-way models favor and which many seem to aspire to but makes me want to offer her a thick-juicy burger. Given the lack of expression on her face and the too-smooth expanse of her forehead, she’s pumped her features with botox.

The two younger women, one blonde, the other brunette, sport dissatisfied frowns.

Their faces are painted with an overly generous application of make-up, enough to turn them into caricatures of themselves.

When one of the staff comes by with a tray of food, the brunette waves them off with a sniff.

The blonde notices my wife; her gaze widens.

She leans in and whispers something to the older woman.

All three of them turn to look at my wife.

Tension thrums off of her, and my insides twist. I pull her close into my side, and to my surprise, she melts in, which tells me she’s feeling threatened by them.

And anxious. And anyone who makes my wife feel that way is not welcome here.

I take a step in their direction, and she grips my arm.

"Where are you going?"

"To tell them to leave."

"You can’t…you can’t do that."

"I can."

"They are G-Pa’s guests."

"They make you unhappy."

She looks away, then nods. "That’s my father’s wife and their two daughters."

"Your evil stepmother and your half-sisters?"

My poor attempt at levity must work, for she gives me a small smile.

"We don’t have to be here; we can leave," I say softly.

She looks torn, then slowly shakes her head. "We came here at G-Pa’s invitation. He wants us here. You want to be here."

"I want to be where you are."

She turns her gaze on mine and, again, that confused expression flits across her face.

"What is it?" I take in her features. "Tell me, wife."

"It’s… " She opens her mouth then shuts it. "Nothing." She squares her shoulders. "I’d better go get this over with."