Page 54 of The Wrong Husband

Damian

Ididn't move in exactly, mostly because she didn't have any closet space for my stuff. I would have to bring a change of clothes every day, I decided.

Thirty-six hours after I found Emilia crumpled on her floor, she was back to normal

Now after a week of living together and sleeping in the same bed (without having sex), we were comfortable with each other.

Roommates with sexual tension!

"I have a restaurant," I told her as we drank coffee one morning. I got croissants from the bakery across the street. They were damn good, especially with the French butter that Emilia had in her fridge.

"What does that mean?" she retorted, breaking a piece of croissant off.

"I have a fifty percent stake at a French restaurant. We have dinner reservations for Friday night."

"We do?" she mused.

My lips curved into a smile. I don't know why I thought she was mousy and quiet because Emilia Winters was no such thing. She could stand her ground. She gave in to people she cared about because she cared about them and wanted to make them like her.

"Mrs. Emilia Archer, may I have the kind pleasure of your company to a beautiful French restaurant this Friday evening."

She smiled. "Yes, Mr. Damian Archer, you may."

"You need to buy a dress," I added.

"Are you telling me that I need to buy a dress or are you asking, hey, do you need to buy a dress?"

My wife was a pain in the ass. I liked it. I liked her. A lot.

"Do you need to buy a dress?"

She shook her head.

"Because I can have a fashion buyer bring down—"

"I can dress myself, Damian. I've been doing it for many years now.”

I didn't want to insult her or ruin this relaxed place we were in, but I also wanted her to know that as an Archer, she would be expected to dress accordingly—and if she didn't, the gossip sites and the society bitches would tear her apart.

"I'm just saying that I'm not expecting you to have something suitable in your closet." Actually, I'd been there, and I knew she didn’t have date-worthy clothes. Most of her wardrobe was casual, with the rest consisting of dull work attire.

"I got this, Damian. I promise I won't embarrass you."

I put a hand on hers. "You could never embarrass me. You drive me up the wall. You lick your lips all the time and make me hard. You argue with me until I want to spank your ass raw. But you never make me wish you were anything but you."

Her eyes sparkled with tears, and it gutted me to think that she had probably heard the exact opposite of what I had just said her entire life. Her family had always expected her to conform.

"How very Bridget Jones of you!" She lightened the mood.

"I don't get the connection."

"There's this line in the movie where Darcy tells Bridget that he likes her just the way she is. Not thinner, prettier, cuter or whatever, just the way she is."

"Well, call me Mr. Darcy," I said playfully.

She didn't smile.

"Are you okay?" I asked her.