He didn’t squeeze hard enough to leave a bruise, but the pressure was firm, forcing me to look directly into his eyes.

“My parents’ car is already on its way from the hotel. I expect you to look like my wife, not a kitchen maid.”

“I’ll go get dressed now,” I said, keeping my voice entirely devoid of anger.

“And that,” he said, nodding toward the white fiberglass cast on my arm. “Can we cover it with a shawl? It looks incredibly tacky.”

“The doctor said I need to keep it elevated and uncovered to let the air circulate, Derek. It’s still settling.”

He frowned, his thumb pressing harder into my jaw for a fraction of a second before he let go.

“Fine. Just make sure you don’t make a scene about it. If anyone asks, you tripped on the porch ice.”

“Of course,” I said. “A simple accident.”

“Precisely,” he said, turning to walk toward the stairs. “I’m going to shower. Make sure the wine is opened and breathing.”

I watched his back as he walked away, his shoulders square and confident.