Chloe Nichols was a die-hard tennis fan; her intel was never wrong.

The upcoming professional circuit tournament was being held right here in Deepwater. Even in December, while the rest of the country braced for cold fronts, Deepwater remained breezy and mild. Outside the window, the banyan trees provided a canopy of cool, shifting shade.

Violette Ellis replied, "That’s good. Wish him the best."

Chloe fired back: *The prize money for this circuit is nothing compared to the major tours. The CTA1000 barely pays a few grand. Why would he choose this over the big leagues where he could actually rack up points and cash?*

Violette: *Ask him yourself.*

Chloe: *Look, walking out on you back then was definitely a jerk move, but if he’s picking Deepwater for his return match, it’s hard not to think he’s here for…*

Violette closed the app, choosing not to read any further. Chloe was indeed a superfan, but more importantly, she was the president of the "Violette-Blake" fan club. Even though they had broken up years ago, the ship’s captain refused to let it sink.

Her phone buzzed repeatedly behind her, but Violette ignored it and headed to the walk-in closet to pick out an outfit.

Halfway through, she heard a sound behind her. She turned to see Roman Griffin walking past, a towel wrapped low around his hips. His damp, dark hair was swept back from his forehead, slicked as if he’d spent half an hour styling it, his eyes tracking her with that sharp, elite intensity.

The zipper of her A-line skirt was stuck at her waist. Violette reached for it, but Roman’s hand was already there, pushing hers aside.

"Let me," he murmured.

For particularly complicated evening gowns, Violette would often ask for his help, but she could easily handle a simple everyday skirt on her own. Roman had developed a habit—perhaps he was one of those "helicopter husbands" currently in vogue—of involving himself in every minute detail of her life. Just like on the weekends at home, when he insisted on cooking all their meals himself, refusing to let the housekeeper handle a thing.

Once the skirt was sorted, she reached for her sweater. She waited for Roman to head out, but he simply stood there, nodding toward her.

*Why wasn't he leaving?*

Because she was braless underneath, and she certainly couldn't finish getting dressed with him hovering.

Since they’d married, their exploration of each other had been a slow, measured process. At night, with the lights off, they stuck to the most traditional rhythms. They had never once done this in the broad, unforgiving light of day, with him watching her strip down. Violette gripped the sweater tightly. "I still need to put on a bra."

Men were just built differently; Roman’s threshold for embarrassment was practically non-existent. Without a word, he turned and walked out, even politely pulling the closet door shut behind him.

Through the frosted glass, only the soft silhouette of her movements was visible. Once he was truly gone, she moved at a leisurely pace, lifting her pajamas over her head and hooking on a matching bra.

Outside, Roman let out a low, amused huff.

His night vision was excellent; he could see her perfectly well even with the lights out. He knew about the tiny, beautiful mole right near the side of her right breast. He had seen everything there was to see—and then some.

***

Violette had worked the evening news yesterday, so she was heading into the station around noon today. Roman had arranged for the housekeeper to arrive early to prep her lunch before he headed off to V-Oasis.

A friend from The Azure Club had stopped by to drop off his wallet and had been waiting in the executive lounge. As soon as he saw Roman, he bounded over.

"Well, look at this. A miracle. Our legendary workaholic, Mr. Griffin, is actually running late? Oh, I see! Off to see the wife, were we? Must’ve been a—"

Before he could finish, Roman shot him a cold, sharp look. "Don't joke about her."

The man immediately straightened up. "Understood."

They walked into the office area together. While the guy who’d just been scolded was trying to keep his thoughts professional, the one who’d done the scolding was busy replaying the reason for his lateness. That beautiful little mole kept flickering in his mind. As he reached his office, Roman paused, turned on his heel, and marched straight back out.

Violette let out a soft gasp as he cornered her against the closet door.

She hadn't finished dressing; the collar of her shirt was bunched down to her shoulder. Roman leaned in, pressing his lips against the crook of her neck. His usual composure, his pride in his restraint—all of it had been thrown out the window. In its place was a simmering, desperate heat. They were husband and wife, legally bound, with a marriage certificate that carried the weight of the law. So why had he been feeling so restless since last night? It made no sense.

He kissed her, his mind racing, but he couldn't find an answer. So, he stopped trying. He breathed hard against her skin, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper:

"Want to try this in the daylight?"