The Holloways (Made for Love Book 3.5) (7 page)

“Babe—this is not a few things,” I interrupt, gesturing to the pile of purchases that cover the bed. “How much did you spend on all of that?”

“Um, I don’t know,” she says with a shrug. “Maybe a few hundred.”

My eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “A few hundred?”

“Well, I wasn’t walking around with a calculator, but if I had to guess—like five, maybe six?”

“Six? Six
hundred?
You just decided to spend six hundred dollars today without discussing it with me?” I demand to know, folding my arms across my chest.

She huffs out a sigh, mimicking my stance. “It’s not like we don’t have it, Rome.”

“That’s not the point. Do you even need half of this stuff?” I ask, rummaging through each bag. I’m so worked up that it all looks the same—clothes, clothes, and more clothes. “You need to take this stuff back,” I state, sure that these impulse buys are just that, impulsive and completely unnecessary.

“Excuse me?” she mutters, tugging on my arm.

“I didn't stutter, babe. This stuff goes back. Tomorrow.”

Her face scrunches up in anger as her arms fall to her sides. “What is your problem? Are you
trying
to pick a fight right now?”

I turn to face her, appalled that she’s so oblivious to the issue at hand. “Logan, you can’t just go on a shopping spree and drop half a grand because you feel like it.”

“What about my holiday bonus check? I didn’t even spend half of it! What's the big deal if I splurge a little? Are you telling me that I can’t spend my own money?”

“That’s not what I’m saying and you know it,” I mutter, shaking my head in frustration.

“Actually, no, I don’t. What I
do
know is that I’m not having this conversation right now. I don’t know what the hell your problem is, or why you decided to just come home and start yelling at me, but we’re leaving in a half an hour to go meet our friends and I’m not done getting ready. Yell at me later—or
don’t
. That would be better. Either way, I’m not leaving here with wet hair.” She brushes past me without another word, slamming the bathroom door behind her.

I can’t believe that ten minutes ago, all I could think about was burying myself in that woman. Instead, the place where I intended to take her—completely naked—is covered in shopping bags filled with only God knows what. I mutter under my breath as I head to the dresser for a change of clothes. I'll shower in the guest bath. There’s no way I’m trying to get into our bathroom with her all fired up in there.

She’s right. We aren’t strapped for cash. Even after the holidays, we’re looking pretty good. We don’t usually spend a whole lot; and with the condo paid off, it’s pretty easy for us to set money aside. Being in school, only working part time, I know that she brings in a lot more than me. I’m not a prick—I don’t have anything against her spending the money she’s earned—but we agreed that our finances would be
ours
. I don’t believe in that
his and hers
nonsense. She’s my wife, I’m her husband, and we share everything.

I’m not mad that she spent the money. Well—not entirely. I’m more upset that she felt like she could do so without talking to me about it first. Add to that her negligence to lock the door, something I’ve told her to do
repeatedly,
and who could blame me for losing my temper? Now, spending the night over pizza and beer with old friends doesn't sound appealing—not with Logan and I at odds. If there’s one thing I hate more than anything, it’s fighting with my wife
.

I hate fighting with my husband.

There’s always a moment. With Roman, ever since I fell in love with him, there’s always this
moment
that happens when we’re in the middle of an argument. Sometimes, it surfaces right away. We’ll be yelling at each other and, all of a sudden,
bam!
Waterworks. Then, sometimes, there’s a delay. Minutes or hours later—depending on the duration or circumstances of our
bitch
—it strikes when I least expect it. I’m never prepared. Even worse, sometimes it dissolves the situation before I’m ready for it to be resolved.

Right now, I’m
angry
. There’s no way in hell I’m taking all that stuff back. I bought it because I wanted it and I’m keeping it! Well, what’s mine at least. The gifts are most certainly not getting returned. They were purchased with purpose, and he has no right to make me take them back. He has no right to make me take
any
of it back. It’s not like I dipped into our savings or charged it to the credit card. I’m well aware of the funds that we have available. I’m not obtuse when it comes to my finances. I took care of myself for years with no help from him!

Admittedly, my parents’ financial well-being played a big part in my comfortable living style—but that’s totally beside the point!

The point is, he picked a fight! I arranged this whole night, he knows that, and yet he decided to ruin it by yelling at me for no good reason just minutes before we’re supposed to leave! I don’t know what crawled up his ass, but I didn’t do anything wrong. Now, as I stand here, hot and irritated, the heat from my hairdryer only making it worse, all I can think about is that
moment
. It hasn’t hit yet. It will. It always does. Tonight was supposed to be fun and now I have to spend it pretending I’m not pissed at my husband while I wait for the
moment
.

I cut off my blow-dryer, my hair still a little wet, and decide to just pull it back. A smirk tugs at the corner of my mouth when I remember how much Roman loves my hair in a ponytail.

If he’s going to be an ass—I’m going to look hot as shit while he’s doing it.

I pin the front of my hair into a bump and then pull the rest into ponytail in the middle of my head. I adorn my ears with earrings and then tug a little at my V-neck sweater, exposing just enough boob for him to notice. I’m wearing a new bra and the demi-cut does wonders for my cleavage.

I’m just finishing up with my makeup when there’s a knock at the door. “Babe,” Roman mutters. “We’ve got to go.” I stare at the door for a minute, waiting to see if he’s ready to apologize, but he doesn’t say another peep before I hear his footsteps leave the room. I huff out a sigh, my frustration reignited as I leave the bathroom and head straight for the walk-in closet. I don’t even have to pause and think before I pull out my tan, knee-high, wedged boots. When I’ve got them zipped up, I reach for my peacoat and slip it on before grabbing my purse from off of the bed.

I spot the Victoria Secret bag full of goodies and roll my eyes. Maybe
that
I’ll take back. I’m not sure he deserves them anymore.

It’s
freezing
outside. Now that the sun has gone down, the chill from before has escalated to downright frigid. When the wind blows, it feels as though I’m not wearing a coat—or a sweater—or
skin
, the air cutting straight to the bone. Instinct beckons me to huddle up with my hubby as we make our way from the car to the restaurant; but after our silent car ride over, I absolutely refuse.

I’m relieved when we walk into the Pub and spot Trisha and Ryan right away. Trisha smiles and waves us over and I try my best to look excited to be here. Just as Roman and I shed our coats, Ashton walks in with his date. Trisha gasps and I whip my head around to look at her. We share a smile, our wordless exchange of appreciation for this profound moment—
Ashton
with a girl on his arm instead of a book in his hands.

At the same time, we both look back at the beautiful, curvy figure who looks nervous and shy. Ashton is practically beaming, though I’m sure he’d deny it if we mentioned it. “Hey, everyone,” he says in greeting. “This is Gabby. Gabby—this is everyone.”

Trisha scoffs and rolls her eyes before she reaches across the table to shake Gabby’s hand. “I’m Trisha,” she says before nodding to the man beside her. “This is my husband, Ryan.” He reaches his hand out to shake hers, too; then Roman introduces us.

I’m still mad at him—not feeling an ounce more forgiving than when we left home—but hearing him introduce me as his wife…I’m sure I’ll never tire of it.

We order our first round of drinks and I opt for a Cosmo. This evening calls for something stronger than beer. I barely get my food menu open before Roman leans toward me and asks, “What are you getting for dinner?”

“Why?” I mutter, not bothering to look at him. “Afraid I’ll
overspend
?” The words are out faster than I can stop to think about them. Before I can decide whether or not I want to take them back, Roman has my chin between his fingers, turning my face so that I have no place to look other than into his irritatingly gorgeous brown eyes.

“
Don’t,
” he grinds out.

It hits me all at once.

My anguish.

My anger.

My tears.

The
moment
always arrives with a bit of fanfare.

I stand abruptly, excusing myself awkwardly, and hurry toward the restrooms.

It hurts. Every time
.

I love him. I despised him for years. I hated the way he looked at me. The way he spoke to me—always condescending and never without judgment. But I wasn’t any better. I never turned the other cheek—never. I always had a smart-ass remark to throw back at him. We fought like cats and dogs, not thinking about each other’s feelings, as if we forgot that they even existed. And now—now
I love him!
Fighting with him…it makes us act like
them
; it makes us act like the Roman and Logan of old, only every word hits harder.

I don’t want to be
her
. I don’t want to disrespect my husband, I don’t—but he makes me so irritated sometimes. Reeling in my temper isn’t always easy. And I get it. Relationships are hard and people fight, but it doesn’t feel that simple with us. It never has and I’m convinced it never will. So, when the moment hits, all I can do is surrender.

I burst through the bathroom door, my vision blurred by my tears as I push my way into the first stall. I don’t notice that I'm being followed until I meet resistance when I try shutting myself in. I gasp, my eyes growing wide with shock when I see Roman forcing his way into the small space with me.

“What are you—? Get out! What are you doing?” I screech as he slides the lock in place.

“My wife gets up and leaves the table in tears and I’m supposed to stay behind? I don’t think so.”

“Oh, so, you’re trying to save face?” I ask, not bothering to reach up to dry my cheeks. “Well, you’ve done your duty. You can leave now. Tell them whatever you want.”

“Stop it. Just—
stop it,
” he insists, cupping his hands around my face. His expression is hard but his touch is gentle, and I don’t know whether to shake him off or bury myself in his chest. “I don’t like this anymore than you do, babe.”

“You
started
it,” I argue, pulling his hands away from me. “You’re the one who decided to come home and yell at me for no reason.”

“First of all, we’re not playing the blame game, Logan. Maybe I lost my temper, but you aren’t without fault. You shouldn’t have spent all that money without talking to me first.”

“Since when do I have to ask permission to spend
my
money?”

“
Not
your money,” he bites, caging me between his arms as he presses his hands against the wall behind me. “
Our
money, Logan.
Ours
.”

“But—”

“We agreed.
One
pot.
One
name.
Holloway.
Our
money. I get it—you’re the breadwinner right now, but this isn’t me taking advantage of that. It’s not always going to be like this. One more semester and I’ll be working full time—but that won’t change anything.
One
pot.
One
name.
Our
money.”

“I know, okay? I know! But—still! I didn’t break the bank!”

“
Babe!
” He pulls away from me, rubbing his hands up and down his face. He draws in a deep breath and then puffs out a sigh before looking at me once more. “It’s not even about the money. We had the money, I understand that—but we need to be in communication about these things. What if I had plans for that money?”

I narrow my eyes at him, folding my arms across my chest. “I’m sorry, are you trying to tell me that you somehow have more right to the money than I do?”

“You are infuriating,” he growls, shaking his head at me.

“
Me?!
” I gasp.

“When you come to me and tell me that you want to drop a few hundred dollars, when you warn me that you feel like going on a shopping spree, it enables me to adjust our travel budget—it gives me a chance to make a
compromise
with you.”

“Travel budget? What travel budget?”

“I’ve been trying to figure out a few things. I was planning on surprising my wife with a trip for our one year anniversary after I graduate. These things require a budget—something
you
need to work on.”

In an instant, my anger vanishes, as if it never existed. I gape at Roman, my mind trying to process what he’s just said. “You’re—you’re already planning our anniversary?” I murmur with a sniff.