Not heart-shaped pillows.
And flower petals strewn across the down comforter.
It’s bad enough that I had to spend a solid thirty-seven seconds talking myself down from how Samson said he neededa room for twonottwo rooms. Eventually, I convinced myself multiple rooms would be more expensive than multiple beds.
Two beds. Same room. No big deal.
It does not, at all, matter that I know Samson sleeps topless.
I don’t know why that information would be relevant in any way, actually.
And I should stop thinking about itright now.
Samson, calmly, strides to the bedside table where a bottle of wine sits on a tray with two pedestal glasses and two unlit candles. “Riesling. It’s sweet.” He looks at me. “Want some?”
The last thing I need right now iswine. “Samson…please don’t let your sweet tooth into the driver seat right now. That is alcohol.”
Without breaking eye contact, this man pops the cork. “Yes. And? Do you not handle it well?”
I need to sit down.
Unfortunately, while this room is plush, it is still small, mostly taken up by the king-size bed in the center, also known as: the only place to sit.
Maybe I’ll just collapse to the floor, where I shall offer to sleep for the night.
Before I know how I’m going to phrase that classicmale leadoption in a way that won’t have Samson volunteering himself for the carpet, he’s holding a wine glass with a pale amber liquid out to me.
Whatever look I give him as my gaze crawls up to his face makes him pull the glass back. “Sorry. You don’t drink?”
“I never could afford alcohol. I never understood the point, either.”
“I like the way some tastes. This could be terrible, though. No idea.” He takes a sip, makes a low sound, and offers me the glass again. “No, it’s good. Really good. Notes of apricot, citrusy.” He smiles. “I like it.”
Yeah? Well…I like indirect kisses. So I take the glass, watching Samson return to the bed, sit amid the rose petals, and pour himself one.
Very tentatively, I see myself to the other side of the bed and sit on the edge. The mattress sinks, welcoming me into its foam embrace. Cautious, I sip the wine.
Samson was right.
It both tastes and smells strongly of citrus while not entirely foregoing touches of apricot. It’s sweet. Good. I take another small sip.
“You okay, Lemonade?” Samson asks while I nurse the rim of my glass.
The gentle question makes me jump. “Um. Y-yes. Why?”
“You seem tense.” The bed shifts as Samson reclines against a heart-shaped pillow. “You don’t have to drink that if it makes you uncomfortable.”
Uncomfortable.
What a word.
Setting the glass on the nightstand nearest me, I toy with a petal beside my thigh. “Are…you comfortable?”
“Drinking? Yeah. I was raised around harder things than a glass of wine. I’ve seen it cause enough stupidity to know when to stop while I’m still sane. Were it anything but sweet, I wouldn’t bother with it…but…” He exhales a soft laugh. “Well, you know my weaknesses.”
I know a handful at least. What he doesn’t know is that he’s my weakness.
His eyes close. “It was a good day.” Warmth radiates off him, seeping directly into every centimeter of my body. “You’re a very considerate wife. Whoever becomes your husband will be very lucky.”
