"Hello, future Mrs. Wilder," he says, looking down at the bundle of fur in my arms. "I see you have an adorable puppy. Is there anything I can get for him? Food? Toys?"
I imagine Snorty waking up to a personal butler bringing him gourmet treats on a silver platter. My spoiled little Snortster would probably expect it every day after that.
“No thank you,” I say, shifting Snorty in my arms. “He just needs sleep. Nice meeting you,” I say to Oswald as Rio leads me away.
Only when the door of the fancy mirrored elevator closes do I confront Rio.
“Future Mrs. Wilder, huh?” I say in a teasing tone. “I must have missed your proposal.”
Rio grins but doesn’t answer.
Before I can respond, Snorty whimpers in his sleep.
I rock him gently, hoping he’ll fall asleep again. He’ll need rest to regain his strength.
When we reach the penthouse floor, Rio opens his apartment door. It’s all I can do to avoid gasping in surprise.
Rio’s apartment resembles something from a glamorous magazine spread. Floor-to-ceiling windows reveal New York City at its finest.
He leads me through the apartment, holding the door open to what looks to be a guest room.
“He’ll be comfortable in here,” he says.
I settle Snorty carefullyon top of the duvet.
The room’s cool, soundless. The city feels a million miles away in here.
“I should get in beside him,” I say, preparing to slip into bed. “He’ll wake and be frightened.”
“No need,” says Rio, stopping me. “He’s still asleep from the anesthesia. He won’t wake for hours. And I want to talk to you.”
I gently lay the covers over my sleeping puppy and tuck him in so he’s snuggly warm.
Then I follow Rio into the living room.
“Want something to drink? Something to eat?”
“Water’s good,” I say, settling on the sofa as he takes a bottle of sparkling water from a small refrigerator near the marble bar. He pours us both a glass.
Then Rio opens a cupboard and takes out a box of Cracker Jacks.
“Want some?” he says, after tearing open the box and sitting beside me.
“Sure.” I take a caramel-covered morsel and pop it into my mouth.
“I want to apologize,” Rio says, taking my now sticky hand. “I was a jerk in Las Vegas. Distrusting you like that. I’m not sure where that’s coming from.”
I’m silent for a moment, reflecting on his tone. On the words unsaid.
It’s not easy for any man to admit he was wrong, I think to myself.
“Why were you so quick to assume I’d deceive you with any man? Least of all Joseph W. King?”
Maybe it’s the tone I used when I asked the question. Or maybe it’s something else. But Rio laughs.
“Crazy, isn’t it? I chalk it up to my possessive nature,” he says, digging deeper into the Cracker Jacks, as if feeling for something inside.
“I was an only child, but when cousins came to visit, I’d never let them play with my toys.They were mine.Just like after that magical night we spent together, I thought you were mine. So when I saw that tabloid photo of you with Joseph’s hand on your rear end, I went crazy.”
