Crazy In Love (Secrets of Suburbia #3) - Ivy Smoak Page 0,11

to stay the night even though she keeps trying to get away.

I hummed as I flipped the last two pieces of French toast. Was that how I got the idea for my master plan? Some kind of twisted version of Baby It's Cold Outside? My husband and I had danced to this song right here in the kitchen last year. He'd dipped me low with a spatula in my hand and I'd almost slipped because of my socks on the tiled floor. I smiled, remembering how I lightly slapped his ass with the spatula in retaliation and he'd chased me around the kitchen until we were naked on the floor and our dinner was burnt.

Had he known even then that he no longer loved me? Was that moment all an act? I glanced at the basement door. Maybe I was going about this thing all wrong. I could get a tree for the basement and decorate it. We could dance to silly Christmas music. Maybe even watch some of my favorite holiday movies together. I could slowly woo him into a confession. He didn't even know who I was. I could make him fall in love with me all over again.

Stop. My hips stopped swaying to the rapey tune like I was reprimanding myself for my awesome dance moves. Stop thinking about fixing your relationship. What the hell was I thinking? Getting a basement Christmas tree was insane. I was done being the perfect housewife, or my holiday decorations would have been up the day after Thanksgiving. And even though I'd slacked the last few weeks by not even changing over my hand towels to the red and green ones, I'd given the whole housewife thing up for good last night. Permanently. By kidnapping.

I turned the radio off. There would be no Christmas for me this year. But I would be getting a wonderful present. Justice. Vengeance? I wasn't sure which yet. I was leaning toward the latter. I slid the eggs and French toast onto two plates and poured us each a cup of orange juice. He'd probably complain that I didn't bring him coffee. But the last thing I needed was a caffeinated captive.

I pulled my mask back on, grabbed the tray of food, and made my way downstairs.

He lifted his head as my footsteps approached, his eyes locking with mine. I was relieved to see that he looked significantly less angry.

I placed the tray down on the small table. I'd thought of everything, even our dining situation. "I'm going to remove the gag, okay? But remember what we talked about earlier? No yelling."

He didn't respond. Well...he couldn't respond verbally. I was hoping for a nod or something encouraging though.

I untied the back of the cloth anyway. He needed to eat. I hadn't pushed his body down the stairs so he'd starve to death. Dropped. Dropped his body down the stairs by accident. I was surprised when he didn't start screaming immediately.

"Are you trying to prove to me that this isn't a sex thing?" He nodded toward the pajamas I'd changed into.

I folded my arms across my chest. Maybe I would let him starve after all. "They're comfortable."

"I never said I didn't like them." He flashed me a smile. "You look adorable."

I stared back at him. Adorable? Did he actually mean that? Not frumpy? Fat? Ugly? Like I stopped trying?

"You're glaring at me," he said calmly like he had at the bar last night. But he shouldn't have been calm now. He was tied up. We weren't two carefree adults flirting in public. He was my prisoner.

"I'm not glaring." I turned away from him. I was expecting him to still be hostile, not...whatever the hell this was.

"Everything smells wonderful. Do you want to untie my hands so I can eat?"

So that's what this was. He was trying to make me feel comfortable so I would free him. But just because I was adorable didn't mean I wasn't one step ahead of him. "I'll feed you. Do you want syrup or butter on your French toast?" When I first met my husband he preferred butter. But after a few years I’d finally convinced him that syrup was a significantly better choice.

"Syrup."

Interesting. I lifted the bottle, trying my best not to look at him. I would not fall into whatever trap he was trying to put me in. But my hand hesitated before pouring the syrup. "Do you want it on the top or do you like to make a