“I’m so sorry,” I say anyway, trying to break the ice.
“It’s nothing,” she replies, still not looking at me. “I’m just really clumsy.”
Trying to keep the conversation going, I tease, “Oh, tell me about it. I know all about being a girl with slippery hands.”
She finally lifts her head, and when our eyes meet, I lose my breath.
I’ve seen those eyes before.
In fact, I see them every day.
Three pairs of them, to be exact.
“Lillyana Ross,” I say, extending my hand, so shaken that I forget my last name isn’t Ross anymore.
She hesitates for a moment before finally taking it. “Amber Martin.”
“Amber?What a beautiful name.”
She shrugs, but I can tell it’s not out of rudeness, more like she’s not used to receiving compliments. “I think they gave me that name because of my eyes.”
Before I can ask who they are, she apologizes and quickly walks away.
Amber Martin.
Maybe I’m losing it, but I could swear that shy woman, the one who practically ran off, looks like a female version of my husband—or maybe a glimpse of what my daughters might look like one day.
Shaking my head, I gather my things and head to the parking lot, where the driver and security guards are waiting for me.
I get home with the scene from the mall still playing in my mind and make a mental note to dig a little deeper and find out who that beautiful girl is. I plan to search her name online and see what comes up.
But for now, I only want to focus on making our wedding anniversary celebration perfect.
Epilogue 2
The first thing I notice when I walk into the house is the silence.
If you have kids, you know exactly what I mean. With three children, the concept of “peace and quiet” is . . . fluid, almost as rare as a bottle ofKona Nigariwater.
Not that I’m complaining.
For someone who spent most of his life closed off, it’s weird how much I miss the noise they make with their endless questions—usually all at once—about every little detail around us, or the occasional protest from Hana.
So this kind of silence feels . . . off.
I drop my bag on the couch, and as I head toward the bedroom, I notice flickering candles have replaced the lights.
Soft music plays in the background.
And now I’m grinning like the cat that got the canary—because I know my wife has planned something.
Of course I remembered it’s our wedding anniversary. I had a bracelet custom-made for her by a renowned jeweler in the Principality of Amasitano[4]—and I’ve been keeping it hidden for weeks.
When I suggested going out to dinner, Lilly said she preferred to stay in.
Now, I'm dying to know why.
Despite the chaos of juggling careers and kids, the sex between us is still explosive.
