“No,” she says. “I know you’re worried about the boots, I can tell. I’ve worn much higher heels before.”
My jaw ticks. “Not while carrying my child.”
She places her hands on her hips. “Santo, I’m barely pregnant. The baby is the size of a poppy seed. My shoes aren’t going to hurt it.”
I sigh, my frustration warring with how adorable she is standing there, defiant and beautiful. “The baby might be small, but you’re still pregnant. What if you slip? What if you fall?”
“Then you’ll catch me,” she says simply, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You always do.”
She moves past me to adjust a place setting, and I follow, unable to stop myself from hovering.
“At least let me help you,” I mutter, reaching for the napkin she’s about to fold.
Vasilisa swats my hand away. “Santo, I love you, but you’re driving me crazy. I’m not made of glass.”
I sigh. Frustrated, but I step back.
She’s in hosting mode, floating, glowing, beautiful. I watch her glide from the table to the mantel, adjusting a garland ribbon that was already perfect, humming under her breath.
I adore her when she hosts.
I always have.
She lights up entire rooms without trying. Steals my breath every time.
She steps onto her toes to straighten a candle, and my heart stops because she wobbles, just a fraction, before steadying herself.
My entire spine locks.
I take one step toward her, ready to catch her—
But she doesn’t fall.
She just turns around with that proud little smile that kills me.
“Santo,”she warns softly, reading my mind. “I’m fine.”
She’s fine.
She’s fine.
And still my hand stays on her waist like I’m afraid she’ll float away.
She places the last plate, sighs with satisfaction, and looks like something sculpted by God just to ruin me. I can’t look anywhere else. I don’t even try. My entire world narrows to the sway of her dress, the soft sparkle of her tights, the way the green matches the shirt I chose just to make her smile.
Every second, I fall harder.
The doorbell rings.
Vasilisa gasps and my heart lurches in my chest.
And then she runs.
Inheels.
Across marble floor.
“Dea!” I bark, already reaching out. “Stop running—”
