"Hannah!" Riley bellowed as he walked inside the apartment. He startled her so much she nearly dropped the box she was carting. "How many times do I have to tell you, you aren't to lift anything?"
"But, Riley," she protested lamely, "this one isn't the least bit heavy."
"I don't care. Your job is to stay out of the way. Once we're into the other house you can start unpacking. If I see you touch a single one of those boxes again, I'm going to lock you out on the balcony. Is that understood?"
It was understood three apartments over, Hannah was sure. Riley had been surly all morning. He'd left before dawn to pick up the rental truck and returned in time to find her hauling boxes from the kitchen into the living room. She was only trying to help, and he'd made it sound as if she should be arrested.
They'd been married a week now, and if these past seven days were any indication of how their lives would blend together, Hannah wasn't sure they'd last the month. Riley seemed to be under the impression that she was one of his men – someone he could order about at will.
With so much to be done before the move, it was ridiculous that he expected her to do nothing.
The afternoon he'd returned to find a neatly organized row of packed boxes stacked in the corner had resulted in a tirade that had left Hannah shaken and pale. No one had ever stormed at her the way Riley did. He seemed to think she should laze around sampling bonbons while watching daytime television.
He regretted his outburst later and offered an abrupt apology, but by then it had been too late; Hannah could barely tolerate looking at him. She escaped into the bedroom and closed the door.
If only he wasn't so unreasonable. He didn't want her cleaning for fear the solvents would harm her or the baby. Nor did he want her painting, although he was often up till the early hours of the morning. In the evenings when he returned from the base, he wouldn't even take time to eat the meals Hannah had so carefully prepared. Generally he grabbed a few bites on the run while she sat at the table, napkin in her lap, determined to ignore him as he shouted warnings at her about doing this or that.
The doorbell chimed, and Riley took the box from her arms, set it aside and answered the front door. Three men of varying sizes and shapes casually strolled inside. The first was dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, the two others in football jerseys and sweatpants. The trio paused just inside the door when they noticed Hannah.
Riley stepped over to her and looped his arm around her shoulders, drawing her close to his side. "Hannah, this is Steve, Don and Burt," he said, nodding toward each one. "They're my friends. Guys, this is my wife, Hannah."
"Your wife?" the tallest of the three echoed, obviously stunned.
"My wife," Riley repeated brusquely. "Do you have a problem with that, Steve?"
"None." Riley's friend glanced apologetically toward Hannah. "It's just that good friends are generally invited to the wedding, if you know what I mean."