Perfectly Wedded (Perfect Crush #1)

20. Vale

TWENTY

Vale

W e swim on the surface of the water for hours, fully immersed in the colorful underwater show. Bright blue fish, sunny yellow ones, zebra-striped, a school of orange clownfish—an entire sea circus putting on a spectacle just for us. A full-on show under the surface of the water, things we wouldn’t have seen had we not slid on our goggles and peered into the depths.

In some ways it reminds me of what’s happening under the surface of our marriage. If Sloan could see inside me, I think she’d realize how complicated this is for me. How much I want her. The lengths I’d go for her, if she asked me to.

But like so much with Sloan, she’s too afraid to look beneath the surface, too afraid of what she might find there.

At the end of our time in the water, I notice her looking at me, her mouth quirked into a curious smile.

We’re just swimming now, letting the waves push us around, our life vests doing the heavy lifting so we can just float.

“Is my sister looking this way?” she asks.

I glance over, and Jaz’s face turns away on cue. “She was.”

“If we’re being watched, now would be a good time,” she suggests.

“For what? ”

“I don’t know, a hug maybe? Something to prove we’re not strangers today.” There’s an openness in her eyes, an invitation that wasn’t there before. We’ve been swimming next to each other all morning, lost in our underwater world, but now that we’re bobbing on the surface, wrapped up in the glorious view and each other, something’s changed. She’s changed .

Maybe she’s sun-drunk, that lazy feeling after being at the beach too long, fully relaxed, fingers wrinkled as prunes, her cheeks and shoulders grapefruit pink from the sun. I swim over to her, then unsnap the first buckle on her life vest.

“What are you doing?” she gives a little half-laugh, her eyes flaring with surprise.

“We can’t hug with these life vests on. That’s like hugging someone while wearing an inflatable sumo suit.”

“Vale MacPherson, are you saying I look like a sumo wrestler in my life vest?”

“Not at all. I’m just saying I want nothing between us.”

“So you’re, what—just taking it off?”

Click. The last buckle pops open. “Yes.” I slide off her vest, letting it float in the water beside us. She wraps one arm on it like a flotation device, her legs treading water. “What if I can’t swim without this?”

“You think I’d remove your life vest if I couldn’t keep you afloat? How little faith in me you have.” I unbuckle my life vest, wrestling out of it. “Lifeguard in high school.”

She lifts an eyebrow, unconvinced. “That was a hot minute ago.”

“It’s like riding a bike.” I pull her into my arms, slide my hands across her back. Her breath hitches when our bodies lightly collide under the water. A brush of her leg against mine. Her warm breath against my shoulder.

Skin-on-skin close.

“Believe me now?” I whisper against her ear. Her skin erupts into goose bumps across her back.

“The question is whether my sister does. ”

I spin us enough to see Jaz over Sloan’s shoulder. Then I move my lips close to her earlobe again. “She’s looking at us again.”

“And?” Sloan asks in a ragged whisper.

“She approves,” I say, then after a beat, “The question is, do you?”

“You take me to Cancun to go snorkeling and ask me if I approve?” She laughs. “Of course I approve. This entire trip has been amazing.”

“No, I meant, this.” I stroke my hands along her back, reminding her that she’s in my arms. She’s mine.

She lets out a contented sigh. “ This is something I could get used to. Maybe even addicted to. Like Nutella.”

I laugh. “You’re comparing me to Nutella?”

“I’ve very attached to it, Vale,” she says seriously. “Some might say obsessed.”

“In that case, I’ll be your addiction.”

“You could be, if I let myself get carried away.” She tugs away from me, then floats on her back, her eyes squinting into the sun.

“Where are you going?” I ask, grabbing her hand, like she’s a loose starfish I’m rescuing before it floats off to sea.

“I can’t get too comfortable with this,” she says.

“Sure you can.” I want her to get used to us—to being together this way, feeling this happy and content.

She tips her head up to look at me, her lips curling. “It feels too real.” Then she lies back in the water again, her face glowing from the sun. “I don’t even know what’s real anymore. All I know is I haven’t felt this alive for a long time.” Then she flips her body over with a splash, and starts kicking for the shore.

After returning to the hotel, Sloan heads to our room to shower off and take a nap while Brax and I finalize plans for tonight. If I’m honest, I get the sense she needs a break from me, from the tension that’s crackling under the surface every time we touch. We’re like stretched rubber bands, pulled taut to the point of breaking. One more tug, and we’ll snap.

With her wet hair slicked back from her face, her face lightly pink from the sun, she’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on. She waves goodbye as she slips into the elevator, the doors closing between us. The end of the best date ever. With one exception: the other night when her lips brushed mine in the bedroom and I almost broke down and gave in to her. It would’ve been so easy to melt into her, to give her everything.

After all, she’s my wife, and I want another chance at kissing her. But this time, I want it without a bargaining chip and minus the pressure to set an end date. I refuse to give in to her demands if those demands come with an agenda that involves splitting up. It’s my one thing , the hill I’ll die on. I’m not leaving this marriage. That’s my endgame.

Which means I need to show her my hand.

“So, what’s your plan for tonight?” I ask Brax as we load into the back of a cab and head away from the hotel.

“It’s time for secret date number two. More romantic than snorkeling.”

“Which is?” I ask, intrigued.

“A sunset dinner cruise. You think Sloan would like that?”

My thoughts circle back to kissing Sloan, but this time we’re on a yacht, her face gently lit by the tangerine sky.

“Earth to Vale.” Brax backhands me in the chest.

“Oh, sorry.” I shake my head. “Yeah, she’ll love it.”

We head to the place to book our reservation, and a man wearing a crisp suit takes our information and tells me about the amenities for tonight—live music and dancing, a viewing deck where we can enjoy the sunset, and a menu that includes all the seafood and steak we want.

It’s overpriced and ridiculously touristy, but I don’t care. For Sloan, I’ll do all the schmaltzy guided tours. When I’m with her, the rest of the world grinds to a halt, leaving just us. Maybe I’m enjoying this husband role too much, but I can’t let her go, even if she eventually finds someone else. Someone who fits her better than me.

Something cranks hard inside my chest, like an overtightened screw. Am I so selfish that I wouldn’t give her up so she could be happy? What kind of man am I to hold on to someone, even if they didn’t want me anymore?

An image floats through my memory. My dad leaving right after Christmas, confessing to Mom that he wasn’t happy. That the life he’d grown into didn’t fit him anymore.

He’d made marriage vows, and then decided they were disposable.

And somehow my mom found the strength to accept this and let him go.

But I’m not her. I’m not sure I could be that strong.

What’s worse is how Dad left Mom to fend for herself with three kids. He was supposed to be the one who took care of us, the partner who carried half the load. Instead, he chucked his responsibility, leaving it all behind to find a new life. One that fit better.

I’ve always resented him for that. Even when I found out he’d died, I’d wished for one last chance for him to say he was sorry, that he had missed out on so much happiness by always looking for something better.

Now here I am, in Mom’s shoes, wondering: If Sloan asked me to let her go, would I? Or would I keep her to myself, selfishly wanting her to be mine, even if she chose someone who could make her happier?

My mother and father are not me. But that’s the funny thing about families. We never quite leave behind our blood connections, the way the same traits emerge in different circumstances and unfold in a whole new way.

I would never leave Sloan the way Dad left Mom. But could I be selfless when it came to letting her go? If she just left, could I accept it and move on?

Something twists inside me. Never .

But I’m not sure I’d get a choice.

You can’t force someone to stay in a marriage. It’s a decision two people make to stay with each other, no matter how hard it gets.

Marrying a hockey player is anything but easy. We travel nonstop. The industry is highly unstable. I’m not sure Sloan even thinks it’s a legitimate long-term career option. Professional players only stay in the NHL for about four and a half years. Barely half a decade. If I turn down the NHL, what then? Will I get another shot?

I haven’t thought about what I’ll pursue after hockey, but Sloan needs someone who supports her dreams and provides her with stability, in case her health remains uncertain. What can I offer her that another man can’t? And if I lose her to someone who makes her happier, what will I become then?

Because a life after her is no life at all. I don’t want to imagine the man I’d become without her.

I’m quiet on the drive back to the hotel, suddenly doubting this whole plan to convince Sloan to be my real wife. Whatever the future holds, I won’t be my father. I won’t walk away. But if she asked me to give her up because I can’t offer her what she needs—what then?

That’s where I keep getting stuck, the snag in the plan.

I knock softly at the door in case Sloan is sleeping. It opens with a jerk, like she was waiting for me.

“So, what was your little secret trip with Brax all about?” she asks eagerly.

“I can’t tell you about it yet. But be ready by six,” I say.

She bites back a grin. “Everything is so secretive with you these days.”

“It’ll be worth the wait. Trust me.” I rub the back of my shoulder without thinking.

“Are you hurting?” she asks, concerned.

“An old hockey injury. Sometimes it flares up, but I’m used to living with pain as a professional athlete. It comes with the job. ”

“Job or not, I don’t want you feeling terrible tonight,” she says. “Did you know we have our own private hot tub on the deck?” She nods toward the sliding glass doors just outside our room.

To be honest, I’ve thought about getting in that hot tub with Sloan so many times.

“We could use it together after our date,” she says. “If you don’t mind sharing.”

“Mind?” I say with a spark in my chest. “Why would I ever mind sharing a hot tub with my wife?”

She tilts her head, and I can see the word wife pleases her.

“Later tonight. Just you and me,” she murmurs.

I forget about my twisted thoughts, the ones about having to let her go if I can’t convince her to stay.

She’s mine, for now. And hopefully, forever. If she chooses to stay.