It was also the first time he had called me “my wife.”
Half sitting up, the blanket firmly tucked under my chin, and only my face visible, I smiled. “Yes. Good morning. I’m sorry, I’m …” I was cold and hot, and blood was rushing and draining from my face. I was probably changing colors under their scrutiny, especially since they thought I was naked under the covers.
“When you come to a house this early, expect people to be busy.” Angelo cleared his throat to ensure they jumped to the right—though it was wrong—conclusion as to why it had taken us so long to answer the door.
“General procedure. Sorry about this,” the woman said with a polite smile while the man by her side inspected the studio, his eyes taking everything in.
Angelo’s jeans and rugged brown suede Chelsea boots lying in a heap on the floor were a blessing right now.
“Can I use your bathroom?” the man asked.
“Actually, we have to get to the next address,” the woman hurried to intercept with an apologetic smile. “Thank you and sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Marchesi. You have a good day now.”
“Thank you,” Angelo and I replied.
He walked them the few steps back to the door. I fell flat on my back in relief as soon as he closed it behind them.
“Oh, my God.” I briefly palmed my face.
Angelo remained standing, his palm flat on the entryway table, looking at me.
“Good thinking on your feet,” I said.
He didn’t reply. Just stood there shirtless, watching me lying in his bed, surrounded by his smell and the warmth his body had left behind.
“You had your ring on?” I asked unnecessarily—I could see it was on.
“Yes, June. Because you’re my—” He cleared his throat. “Because I don’t want you to go to jail.”
I couldn’t stand his eyes on me, and the twinge of pain they shot through my heart.
I floundered out of the sofa bed. “Where did you go to last night?” I asked without looking at him.
“How wife-y of you to ask.”
I darted a gaze at him. “Just curious, that’s all. I didn’t hear you come back.”
“I didn’t hear you text,” he deadpanned. Leaving his spot by the door and walking back toward the sofa, he then said, “Found a place that was open until late. Or early. Life’s A Beach. The owner, Ben, we talked about guitars. He owns a Washburn and added a floating bridge and a P90 single, so he knows a thing or two.”
“Oh.” I had no idea what those words meant.
We now stood on both sides of the bed, and I was futilely trying to forget that he was shirtless.
“Good thing you missed your jogging again, or they would have found me alone here.”
“Yeah.”
Angelo strode to the kitchen and began handling his macchinetta. “I was going to tell you, I have to go back to San Francisco,” he said with his back to me. His mouthwateringly bare back.
“It’s Sunday,” I found myself saying, not because I had a point to make but because my stomach suddenly clenched with strange emptiness.
“I know.” Then, noticing the new coffee grounds pack, he took it out of the cupboard and half-pivoted toward me. His expression was one of surprise and appreciation. “Thanks.”
I shrugged adon’t mention it.
Turning back, he lit up the stove burner. “I have to hand over the guitars I finished and bring others. I have work waiting there.”
“So, you’re coming back?”
