The café is empty. Most parents drop their children at the school and disappear for hours—skiing at Jackson Hole Mountain Resort or shopping in town or whatever wealthy people do with their free time. I have the whole space to myself, which means I can finally tackle that inventory spreadsheet that makes me want to cry every time I open it.
The sound of the lock clicking makes me freeze.
I turn.
Santino stands at the door, one hand on the deadbolt, the other flipping the sign fromOPENtoCLOSEDwith the kind of deliberate precision he brings to everything. He wears dark jeans that fit him in ways that should probably be illegal and a charcoal sweater that makes his shoulders look even broader than they are, and when his eyes find mine across the café,something in my chest does that flutter-crash thing it always does.
Like my heart can’t decide whether to race toward him or protect itself.
“Why are we closing early?” My voice comes out softer than I mean it to.
He crosses the café without answering, his footsteps deliberate on the polished concrete floor, and I find myself counting them automatically. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven steps from the door to the counter, seven steps that feel like forever and not long enough, and then he’s right there, close enough that I can smell the coffee on his breath and the faint cedar scent of the racing school clinging to his clothes.
“Because,” he says, his accent turning the word into something dark and promising, “I have been counting.”
“Counting what?”
His lips curve. Not quite a smile. Something more dangerous. “Thirty-six.”
I blink. “Thirty-six...what?” I’m trying to do the math, my mind scrambling through dates. We’ve been married twenty-four days, which means he proposed—
“Thirty-six,” he says again, and this time there’s mockery in his tone, something teasing and possessive and entirely too smug for ten o’clock on a Tuesday morning.
“I don’t understand what you’re—”
“If you have built up enough stamina,” he murmurs, stepping closer, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body, “we can make it thirty-seven within an hour.”
My face goes red.
Oh.
Oh.
Understanding crashes through me like cold water, except the opposite of cold, more like fire, more like every nerve ending in my body suddenly waking up and paying attention. A delicious little thrill runs down my spine even as embarrassment floods my cheeks, making me want to cover my face with my hands, except I can’t move because he’s looking at me like that—like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me and is enjoying every second of my mortification.
My husband is counting.
Not days or steps or the ceiling tiles I used to obsess over.
He’s counting the number of times he’s made me come apart in his arms.
“Santino—”
But he’s already reaching for me, his hands spanning my waist with that confidence that still makes me dizzy, lifting me like I weigh nothing, and then I’m on the counter with my legs dangling and my heart hammering against my ribs and my face burning hot enough to brew espresso.
My husband is just so—
The thought cuts off when he kisses me.
His mouth captures mine with the kind of possession that has nothing to do with asking and everything to do with claiming, his hands framing my face, thumbs pressing against my jaw in a way that makes me open for him, makes me surrender before I’ve even thought about fighting. The kiss tastes like morning coffee and something darker, something that makes heat pool low in my belly and my thighs press together instinctively.
I try to protest when he pulls back just enough to breathe against my mouth. “Santino, wait.” The words come out breathless, desperate. “Today might not be a school day, but what if someone wanted to—”
His mouth moves to my throat.
Ooooh no.
Because Santino is kissing parts of my body that he alone has ever seen and touched, his lips trailing down the side of my neck while his hands—oh dear—his hands are reaching for the hem of my dress, fingers skimming up my thighs in a way that makes me forget how words work.
