“You. You are always important,” he muses, revealing a mistletoe and hanging it above us.
I roll my eyes but can’t stop my smile. “That’s cheating,” I say, even as I step closer to him. “You don’t need props to get me to kiss you.”
“I like traditions,” he says, his smoky eyes never leaving mine. “Especially ones that give me an excuse to kiss my wife.”
I rise on my tiptoes, meeting him halfway as his free arm circles my waist. His lips are cold from the winter air, but they warm quickly against mine. I taste coffee and something sweet...
“Did you eat without me?” I murmur against his mouth.
“Just a pastry,” he says with a grin. “Nothing compared to what you made yesterday.” His fingers thread through my damp hair. “You showered without me. I’m devastated.”
I laugh, pulling back just enough to see his face. “You left me alone in bed. Consider it payback.”
He groans dramatically, tucking the mistletoe into his pocket before cupping my face with both hands. “Cruel woman. I was getting you a gift.”
“Speaking of which...” I glance around him, searching for packages. “Where is this mysterious present that couldn’t wait?”
Santo’s expression shifts, something unreadable flickering across his face before his smile returns. “It’s a surprise for later. You’ll have to be patient.”
“I hate being patient,” I remind him, pouting slightly.
“I know.” He kisses the tip of my nose. “It’s one of my favorite things about you.”
I narrow my eyes suspiciously. “You’re being extra charming this morning. What are you up to?”
“Can’t a man be charming to his beautiful wife without ulterior motives?” He takes my hand, leading me back toward the kitchen. “Did you eat already? I brought more pastries.”
“I had half a croissant,” I admit, following him. “Not my snackcake yet. Thank you for that.”
“You’re welcome, Dea,” he murmurs, a pleased look in his eye.
“I’m beginning to think you don’t want me baking, with all the pastries you’re bringing home.
“Nonsense! My wife loves sweets, why not allow you to indulge?” he smirks.
He releases my hand as we enter the kitchen—
My ring.
I look at my hand.
At his.
“Santo… did you just—”
He opens the dome of pastries, taking a small box out of his jacket pocket and placing eclairs inside. “Just what Dea?”
I tuck my hand behind me. “Nothing. The eclairs look good,” I murmur, shoving my bare hand into the sleeve of my sweater.
How the hell did I lose my ring?
When did I lose it?
His mother’s ring…
His dead mother’s ring.
I’m a dead woman.
