Nico’s voice comes from the doorway, and I catch his reflection in the mirror. He’s wearing a gorgeoustuxedo, the dark fabric cut perfectly across those broad shoulders, his crisp white shirt open at the collar because he hasn’t done-up the bowtie yet.
The scarring along his face just makes him look like him. Sharp and dangerous and roguish in that way that still makes my stomach flutter, even after all these months of waking up next to him. And the tuxedo isn’t helping.
Honestly, Bree.
Get a grip.
You’re married to the man.
“I’m fine,” I lie, still yanking at the zipper.
He crosses the bathroom in three steps. His hands replace mine, warm against my lower back. “You’re murdering the dress.”
“The dress started it, actually,” I insist.
He laughs. Six months ago, getting a genuine laugh out of Nico Rossi was quite the feat. Now he does it all the time.
Usually at my expense, but still.
The zipper slides up smoothly under his fingers.
“Show-off,” I mutter.
His lips brush the back of my neck, just below where my hair is pinned up. “You’re going to be brilliant tonight.”
“I learned from the best,” I counter.
He grins. “You certainly did, Mrs. Rossi.”
I turn in his arms. “Mrs. Dawson-Rossi, thank you very much. We hyphenated. Remember the paperwork nightmare?”
“I remember.” His dark eyes crinkle at the corners. “I also remember our wedding night, which was significantly less nightmarish.”
Heat floods my cheeks.
Right on schedule.
I reach up to straighten his collar. “We have a gala. Donors. Press. Your bowtie isn’t even done.”
“You could do it for me,” he offers.
I chuckle. “I could. But then we’d never leave this bathroom.”
His smile turns wolfish. “I fail to see the problem.”
I push at his chest, which is absolutely useless because it’s like pushing at a very attractive wall. “Nico. Please.”
“Fine.” He catches my hand against his chest, holds it there for a moment. I can feel his heartbeat, steady and strong. “But later...”
“Later,” I agree.
He presses a kiss to my palm and releases me, moving to the mirror to deal with his bowtie. I take a moment to just look at him. At us, reflected side by side in the glass.
Three months married. Six months as Executive Director.
“Stop staring at me and finish getting ready,” Nico says without turning around. “We’re going to be late.”
“I wasn’t staring,” I pout.
