I lean forward, kiss him quickly.
“What was that for?”
“You look delicious.”
A slow smile spreads across his face. Damn if it isn't the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
The waiter comes. We order too much food because I skipped breakfast. The pasta is good. The bread is better. He steals from my plate and I let him because his hand keeps finding my knee under the table.
“I signed up for Celeste's painting classes,” I say between bites. “Thursday evenings.”
His fork stops middair. “You did?”
“Don't make it a thing.”
“It's absolutely a thing.” He sets the fork down. “Let me pay for it. I wanted that to be my gift, but I was waiting for you to decide.”
“You've given me enough.”
“I'm not giving you things, Emma. I'm sharing my life with you. There's a difference.”
“Okay,” I say.
“Okay?” He squeezes my hand.
A lump forms in my throat. “I accept your gift. Thank you.”
He lifts my hand, presses a soft kiss to my knuckles, and I smile wide. We finish lunch. Just an ordinary Tuesday. I want many more with him.
“Ready to go home?” he asks, grinning as he picks up extra dessert to take away.
“If that lemon meringue is coming with us.”
The penthouse is quiet when we get home. Late afternoon light through the windows turns everything warm. I drop the box on the coffee table.
Kai catches my hand before I can move past him, pulls me back gently until I'm facing him.
“What?” I ask.
He looks at me with that expression he gets sometimes. The one where his whole face goes still and focused, like I'm the only thing in the room worth seeing. Addicting.
He kisses me. Slowly at first. His hand slides to the back of my neck, tilting my head, and I melt into him the way I always do. My fingers curl into the front of his shirt.
“Today was a good day,” he murmurs against my lips.
“It's not over yet.”
He walks me backward down the hallway. Slow, careful with the boot. Mouth never leaving mine. We bump into the doorframe and I laugh against his teeth. He swallows the sound.
The bedroom. Golden light pooling across the sheets. His hands pulling my dress up, a question in his fingers. I lift my arms.
He pulls his shirt over his head and I reach for him the way I always do. Palms flat against his chest, fingers spreading over warm skin and hard muscle. Then I feel something.
Something smooth and unfamiliar. A patch of film covering skin I know by heart.
I pull back. Look up.
Through the transparent bandage, fresh ink. Right at the northern point of the compass where the longest line reaches toward his collarbone.
