The Truth about Us by B. Celeste

Author:B. Celeste [Celeste, B.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2019-12-01T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Nine

Ollie

I’m one lucky bastard.

My front teeth dig into my bottom lip, dragging it inward as Charlie smooths out the black material that clings to her body. Her fingers run through her hair as she examines herself in the mirror. The curves that sculpt her are more pronounced in the form-fitting dress, especially when she turns and reveals the ass I’m caught staring at.

“Do I look okay?” The fact she even has to ask makes me feel like I’ve failed her somehow.

Walking over, I glide my hands down the curve of her waist before pulling her into me. “I want to rip that dress off and then fuck you against the wall, if that’s any indication of how you look.” Instead of doing that, I peck her lips and shake my head. “You’re gorgeous.”

Her cheeks pinken as she steps back. “I wasn’t sure where you’re taking me, but you mentioned somewhere nice…”

My lips tilt. She’s been trying to get information out of me all morning since I mentioned that we had plans before going back to Bridgeport for Milo. Besides hinting that she should dress up, I gave nothing else away.

“You’re going to love it. Promise.”

Her nose scrunches. “You know I’m not a hug fan of—”

I silence her with another kiss, this one much longer than the one before. Palms greet my hips, resting on the soft material of my blue button-up that I haven’t worn in years. Neither of us are typically the type to dress up and go out, but I know today is all about Charlie. We’re going back to a time when she didn’t second guess if she looked okay or appropriate, or worried about anyone other than herself.

Caressing her cheek, I withdraw from her welcoming body and offer her my arm. She doesn’t hesitate to take it, letting me walk her out of the bedroom and toward where our shoes rest by the couch.

She nibbles on her lip. “Ollie?”

“Hmm?”

She squats and picks up the black Converse, studying them indecisively. “I didn’t think to bring any other shoes. These are—”

“Perfect.”

She blinks up at me.

I nod. “Put ‘em on. We’ll be late.”

Warily, she slides into them and flattens out the wrinkles of her dress once she’s finished. I can tell by the way she tugs on the hem that she’s nervous. Ever since she had Milo, she’s been cautious about what she wears and how much skin she exposes. All thanks to some bitch in the store shortly after he was born who commented on a pair of shorts she wore. It’s been a long time since I punched someone, but I was two seconds away from launching produce at the woman who felt the need to degrade my wife.

“You’re really not going to tell me?” she asks again once we’re in the car.

Her body is angled carefully in my direction, her eyes wide and pleading. Despite it all, I wink and say, “Nope.”

She groans and leans back, staring out the windshield at the scenery we pass. It isn’t a long drive before we’re pulling into a tiny cobblestone establishment.

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