Where Happiness Begins (Evermore #3)

14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

T he type of information I’ve shared on my platforms over the years is kind of contradictory.

On the one hand, I’ve always been fully transparent about my medical journey. When I was put on a trial for a new drug that might have beneficial effects in the slowing of FSGS—or focal segmental glomerulosclerosis—I shared the entire experience with my followers, and I also cried on my channel when I learned it had done nothing for the auto-destruction my body was wrecking on my kidneys. When I learned that a kidney had been found for me and that it was a match, I shared the news on my pages almost right after telling Nan and best friends. It didn’t matter that there were chances it might end up falling through—a living donor changing their mind, a deceased donor’s organ not being usable after all, someone else needing it more urgently than me—I wanted to let them all know. It’s always felt as if they’ve been part of my struggles and successes, being the best support group a person could hope for, and I didn’t want to keep any of it from them. If the happiness over the good news was to last for only a few days, then I wanted them to have those days, too .

However, as much as I’ve kept this side of my life open to the public, my personal life is something I’ve tried to keep for myself. With Greg, since he was also an influencer, we shared a lot about our relationship online, but the moment we broke up, I took a step back. I didn’t share details of our breakup, didn’t talk about the trauma of trying to date again after a previous relationship had messed with everything you thought you knew and liked about yourself. I barely mentioned the passing of my father.

So I shouldn’t have been surprised when, even weeks after my initial marriage announcement, my inboxes and comments sections, even on sponsored posts, continue to be flooded with demands for information on my husband.

@TS1989: WHO IS HE?!?!?!

@Flowersinbloom27: Bitch you can’t just drop this and leave

@Samseaberg: You don’t even need to show his face, we know he’s hot af just by looking at THAT HAND!!!

That last one made me laugh. I looked again at the picture I’d taken of Carter’s hand draped on my thigh, and that person was right: the sight of those long fingers and strong veins does something to me, too.

I tried to keep it on the down-low, to go on with my regular posting schedule, but it’s not working. I need to give them something, or else I fear they’re going to revolt.

I walk out of my bedroom/office and head over to the kitchen, where I stop in my tracks and take in the scene.

Carter is standing in front of the stove, cooking something that smells heavenly, his wide back to me, tattooed arms on full display. The sight is nothing out of the ordinary, and yet it makes my mouth dry. The art is all in black and white, traced in fine lines. There doesn’t appear to be a theme to the tattoos. A lion’s head, mid-roar is drawn next to a mechanical clock that blends into a pair of wings and a pickaxe. I don’t know if they all have meanings or were picked randomly, but they are true works of art.

I clear my throat, then get back in motion, trying to forget how insanely attractive this man I’m married to only on paper is. “What are you making?” I ask.

“Lentil spaghetti sauce,” he says. “Although I can’t promise it won’t taste like shit.”

I can’t stop my smile from growing. I didn’t want to hope he was cooking for the both of us, but a part of me obviously did.

“Not a big cook?” I ask, hopping on the counter like we did a few nights back. Something shifted between us that night in the dimness of our kitchen. Since then, we’ve lived our own lives as usual, but every evening I’ve been home and made dinner, he’s joined me there and ate with me. Usually, the television was on and we didn’t chat much, but just knowing he was there felt great.

“Usually I do okay,” Carter says as he drains the pasta in the sink. “But I’ve never cooked a vegetarian recipe before.”

Thankfully, his back is still to me, so he doesn’t see the way my smile grows even more.

“I’m sure it’ll be good.”

He looks over his shoulder. “You have a lot of faith in me.”

And I realize I do.

Not only in regards to his cooking abilities but about everything. I’ve been living with a man I know practically nothing about for weeks, and yet I’ve never felt safer in my own house. He might not be Little Mr. Sunshine, but for all his faults, he’s never once scared me. Since I’ve been living on my own here, I’ve spent so many nights jumping up because I thought I’d heard a sound, tiptoeing through the house with a heavy water bottle I could swing around as a weapon. I haven’t slept this well in years. Maybe I’m too trustful of Carter, or maybe he just gives me a sense of security.

He finishes making the sauce, then serves two plates on the kitchen counter, our dining spot of choice. We never make it to the formal dining table.

“So,” I say after a few bites of delicious pasta, pausing the show he was watching, one about a rock band in the seventies. “I have a favor to ask you.”

He hums, continuing to eat.

“I was wondering if you’d go on a live stream with me.”

A choking sound comes from his throat, and after I tap his back twice, he swallows forcefully. “Why?” he rasps out.

“Because my followers have been asking day and night about you, and I think if we give them a few crumbs, they’ll let it go.” I take a sip of water. “Plus, it’ll make the whole thing more believable. ”

“I don’t know,” he says, now picking at his food. “I told you I don’t do social media.”

I almost feel bad at how uncomfortable he is, but not enough to let it go.

“Come on! It’ll be fun. And short, I promise.”

“What would I need to do?” he asks, and I grin.

“Nothing. Just, like, answer a few questions. Look cute.”

His eyes roll upward, then he says in a lower, almost shy, voice, “I don’t like being in front of cameras.”

“Gotta get used to it, mister up-and-coming producer of the year.” When he doesn’t react, I nudge him with my knee. “It’ll be fine. I’ll do most of the talking.” Then I bring out the big guns. “Please?”

He side-eyes me, then sighs. “Fine. But no Twenty Questions, okay?”

I jump to my feet, plate in hand. “Scout’s honor.” I scurry to my room to prepare the setup, fluffy socks sliding against the parquet floorings of the hallway. “Thanks again for the food!”

Thirty minutes later, we’re ready for showtime.

“You nervous?”

“No,” he says, clearly nervous, hands clasped tightly.

I hide my smirk. “Good.”

As I adjust the camera one last time, I roll my shoulders back, feeling some tension there. Even though I’ve done this kind of thing hundreds of times before, I feel tightness in my stomach at the thought of doing this. Now it will really, really be out there.

On the camera, it’s obvious we’re sitting way farther apart than a couple usually would, so I say, “Scoot over.”

He does, only in the opposite direction.

“I meant closer to me, dummy.”

Once again, he listens, a twinkle in his eyes. “Bossy when we’re nervous?”

This time, I’m the one who shoots him the stink eye.

“All right, you ready?”

The moment he says yes, I turn the live stream on and start my usual welcome spiel.

“Hey, everyone. So, as you may have seen, I dropped a little bit of a bomb two weeks ago, and while I initially wanted to keep this a secret, I don’t think I can any longer.” I turn to Carter, who’s looking straight into the camera like I would at a grizzly bear. I kick him under the frame, making him snap his head my way. My smile must look incredibly fake as I widen my eyes at him, hoping he’ll start acting a little more natural if we want this to actually work. “This is Carter, my husband, and we’re going to answer a few questions you have for us today.” Then I take his hand in mine. It’s stiff as a rock, but I don’t let it go, and eventually, he seems to relax, his fingers becoming softer between mine.

Thank God.

This is the first time we hold hands, and for some reason, it doesn’t feel as strange as I would’ve expected it to, at least for me .

“So let’s see what we have.” I start scrolling through the comments on the live, ignoring the hundreds of exclamations and going right to the questions, reading them aloud.

“How long were you together before getting married?” I read, and immediately I realize what a crappy idea this was. We didn’t even think to get our stories straight beforehand. I turn to Carter, who’s watching me, and now, instead of being nervous, he almost looks amused as if he knows I’ll be the one to have to get us out of this mess.

Sucker.

I smile again, hoping the heat in my face isn’t too obvious on people’s phones. “We actually just met a while ago, and we didn’t date long before knowing we wanted to marry each other. Right, boo?”

He blinks, then grits out, “Love at first sight.”

I almost laugh at that. Sure.

“All right, next question.” I scroll through a few I really don’t want to answer, like why I never spoke about him before or what details of our wedding I can share, and wait until I find a good one.

“Oh, here’s a good one.” I turn to Carter, doe-eyed. “Carter, what did you first notice about Lil that made you fall?”

I expect him to grit his teeth and answer something stupid, but once again, he surprises me by actually appearing to think about it. Then he says in a rough voice, “Her hair.”

Automatically, I bring a hand to my ponytail. Most of the time, having long, thick hair annoys me, but I do love the way it looks. Apparently, Carter might too. Unless he’s acting .

I go to turn to the phone to scroll some more, but Carter interrupts me by putting an arm around my shoulder, tucking me closer to him. “What about you?”

A wave of warmth drenches my body, feeling every hard line of him against me. The smell of his laundry detergent and bodywash fills my nose, making me want to tuck in even closer. His arm feels like a weighted blanket over my shoulders, and the little arm hairs that come in contact with my neck make me shiver. He’s decided to up his acting game, apparently. And then, I think of the question he’s just asked and burn even more.

“I noticed his voice,” I say to him more than the followers. It’s not even a lie. He cursed at me before I ever saw him, and I remember how hot that voice sounded.

His cheek twitches. He’s probably remembering the same scene I am.

Then the heathen decides to drag a finger down the side of my throat, making me inhale deeply.

Holy shit. This is nothing, and yet it feels so freaking sensual, especially done in front of an audience like this. He must notice the way his touch affects me because the look he sends me is pure evil. “What about my voice?”

That little shit.

Since we met, I’ve seen multiple different facets of Carter, but this teasing side is new to me, and I hate it almost as much as I like it .

I could lie, but I decide I can do better than that. Instead, I lean closer to him and whisper, loud enough so everyone can hear, “I don’t think I can answer that in front of an audience.”

When I pull away, I notice I’m not the only one who’s flushed now, his pupils so wide the murky green of his irises has almost disappeared. He seems to have finally forgotten the camera, his attention only on me, his finger still tracing subtle lines on my skin. I don’t know whether I’ll be thankful for the loss of this overwhelming sensation when the live is cut off or if I’ll crave more. It doesn’t matter, though. For now, it feels like I’ve gotten the upper hand, even if only in appearance. I smile triumphantly, then return to my feed of questions.

We answer a few more, although the next ones I select are tamer. I’m hot enough as it is, and I think Carter’s suffered enough too. I only let it last a few more minutes, but I can see this little broadcast has done its job. Comments flood the chat, showing things like Look at them! and Please, I want someone to look at me like that too , so I’d say we did a pretty good job convincing people.

When we finally wave goodbye—or rather, I wave and Carter gives his classic nod and moody look—I turn the live stream off and let myself sprawl back on the couch, eyes closed. It feels like I’ve just run a race, and I’m not sure why.

I expect Carter to berate me after putting him on the spot, or maybe even leave downstairs without a word, but he surprises me by saying, “Boo?”

I laugh, straightening my body. “I panicked, okay? ”

“Uh-huh,” he says, not making a move to leave. He also doesn’t bring up whatever happened back there, and I don’t plan on doing so either.

“I have to say, I’m glad we have more proof of our relationship out there,” I say, undoing my ponytail that was giving me a headache, and when I catch his gaze tracking the movement of my fingers running through my hair, I try not to think about his statement from earlier. “I’ve kind of been worried about getting quizzed about you at some point and not knowing the answer and then getting arrested for fraud by the FBI or something.”

“Is this what actually keeps you up at night?” This earns me another twitch of his lips, one that feels like a precious treasure I’ll need to polish and hold on to so I can examine it further when I’m alone. “You don’t think the FBI has bigger fish to fry than spying on you?”

“How would you know?”

Another fraction of an inch up. “You won’t get arrested.”

“Again, how would you know? Ever been arrested?”

Something changes in his face as he remains silent.

I gasp. “Oh my God, you have! What for?”

“I thought we weren’t playing twenty questions.”

“We’re not. This is one.”

He blinks, not finding me funny at all. When he sees I’m not budging, he drags a hand over his jaw. “Can’t we start with an easier one?”

“You haven’t, like, hurt anyone, right?” Maybe my initial reaction of feeling safe with him was a bad one, after all .

“Course not,” he exclaims, face twisted in disgust, and for some reason, I trust it.

“All right. Then…” Something easy. “Favorite color?”

Even that takes him a moment to answer, like he has to think about it. I have a feeling getting answers out of him will be like prying bricks out of a wall.

When he finally answers, he stares right at me. “Blue.”

Huh. I would’ve expected something like black, considering that’s all he wears, but I’ll take it.

“See? Wasn’t that hard.” I shift onto the couch so I’m sitting on my heels, facing him. “Now another.”

“Fireball…”

“What? I need to know more in case I get interviewed by an FBI spy.” I grin, knowing very well this is a ridiculous excuse, yet also grasping at any straws that would allow me to know more about the man I married.

He rolls his eyes, a move that must be part of his DNA, and mutters something under his breath.

But still, he indulges me.