“The Brent kingpin’s chef will recover that for once I didn’t eat her farfalle puttanesca.”
Well, that sounds filthy, and I don’t like it.
“Pasta,” he clarifies, eyes sparkling with mirth as though my jealous thoughts are all over my face.
Oh, okay. But still, I am not having my husband dining out on some other woman’spasta.
Temporary husband.
I nod, helpless with irrational suspicion.
“Do you normally make breakfast like that?” he asks gently.
“No, but I don’t mind doing it for you!” I hasten to add.
“We actually have a chef to cook anything you want.”
“Oh.” Right. Of course he does. My stomach sinks that I’m not needed. I mean, obviously. I should have known. It’s not as though Dante would be throwing together food from a can himself like a normal person.
“Perhaps you’ll try my usual breakfast tomorrow?” he suggests.
I’m a bit sad that the one task I’ve identified as his wife so far has been quietly taken from me. But I nod, because whatever Dante wants to show me, I’m here for.
“I’d love that.” The word love comes out too loud and pronounced, and hangs weirdly in the air between us.
“Good girl. I think you’ll like it. It’s different to an English breakfast you hurt yourself making. How’s your burn?”
He takes my hand and is examining it before I can stop him and my poor little heart does a flip-flop. Because his fingers are warm and gentle. He looks like he really cares about my silly little self-inflicted burn that I got because I was nervous about cooking him a nice breakfast. That it turns out, maybe it isn’t what he wanted.
“It’s fine!” I tell him, probably over-enthusiastically. “It doesn’t hurt.” A tiny bit, but it’s really not bad.
“Hmm.” He makes a sceptical noise and ignores my words, turning my hand in his and brushing his thumb pad over my palm. He’s cradling it, and it’s absurd, because for a second I think I might cry. When did someone last touched me like this? Even when he was bossy this morning, I kinda enjoyed it. It made me feel cared for.
“There is one other thing.” He keeps hold of my hand.
I press my lips together and take a studious interest in the floor. There’s no way I’m putting my foot in it this time.
I’m so bad at this marriage thing. Wife thing.
“Ruby,” he says seriously.
I look up cautiously.
“What’s the matter?” His fingers tighten around my hand, as though I might run, and he wouldn’t like that. Sparks fly across my skin and heat melts me from the middle outwards.
There are so many things I could say, it’s not even funny. There’s a positive A to Z of things that are the matter, starting at A for adoring my husband, through I for inappropriate sexual responses, all the way to Z for zero chance of this not hurting like a bitch when it ends.
“Sorry,” I say instead. “I guess I’m just not that good at this yet. I’m a bit side-swiped that marriage appears to be a series of conversations about what to eat for meals.”
His lips twitch upwards. “I believe it’s also sharing the same surname, watching television together, and being sex-blocked by kids,” he says with a twinkle in his eye.
Heat fills my cheeks. He didn’t just say that!
“But since we’re married, I thought you should have this.” He’s slipped a ring onto my fourth finger before I could gather my thoughts.
A huge pink stone set in a gold band. It’s very clear, reflecting light and colourful like… I don’t even know what it’s like. I’ve never seen anything so stunning. I gape.
“It’s a ruby,” he says, then adds when I’m still speechless, “I hope you like it.”
