Play Along (Windy City, #4)

by Liz Tomforde

To being perfectly imperfect.

This tiny woman, with hair color I can’t categorize and a tone in her voice that would make any man’s balls shrivel up in fear, is fucking stunning.

“No,” she pleads. “Not here. Get your shit together, Kennedy.” Kennedy. Inhaling a deep breath, she shakes her head. “And stop fucking talking to yourself, you weirdo.”

“So, who is she?” On this day, where everything feels like a sign, I don’t hesitate when I say, “My future wife.”

“Does this mean the honeymoon phase is over already?” “I hate you!” “See you at home, wifey!”

“Just think of this as one big game.” His tone is low and deep when he leans down to my ear and whispers, “C’mon wife. Play along.”

“I met Kennedy on that same date three years ago. I don’t know if I’ve ever told you that.” “You didn’t.” “I just so happened to marry her on the exact same date.” His smile is small but understanding. In the same way Max was sent for us, I’ve had the same belief about my new wife.

I hear her, I do, but she’s been busting her ass all day, all week in fact, and I couldn’t help myself from stepping in like a fucking caveman. I also heard her call me her husband.

Yes, I’ve seen his body, but from a medical standpoint. I’ve never looked or touched for any reason other than science. But I’m looking now, and it most definitely isn’t for science.

“Of course you’re a perfectionist.” Isaiah rests his chin on my shoulder. “Because you’re freaking perfect!”

“C’mon, Kenny, let’s go be domestic.”

“Isaiah, are you colorblind?” His smile is sheepish as he rocks back on his heels. “Yeah.”

“Nothing else has ever been Kennedy Kay Auburn.”

He asked me if I wanted him to touch me, and he’s doing just that at a pace I feel comfortable with. It makes me want to cry.

“My shoulder is fucked up because of you, wifey.” “Don’t call me that.” “You made me sleep on the floor. The least you can do is rub it out.” “Can you please not say ‘rub it out’ as if you’re trying to proposition me for more than a shoulder massage?”

“Travis,” she says, ignoring me. “How exactly did you make the very poor decision to become his friend?” “Probably the same way you decided to become his wife.” “Too much tequila?” “Exactly.”

She was never hugged as a kid. Who the hell doesn’t hug their kid? I wanted to hug her right there in the toothbrush aisle of the store when she told me that, but I also didn’t want to overwhelm her.

She’s so pretty and sometimes a little mean. It’s a lethal combination for me.