"Ridiculously handsome?"
She grins. "Don't let it go to your head."
"Too late," I growl, drawing her farther into my embrace and well aware that she can feel my hardness as she presses her body to mine.
I kiss her. Soft at first, just the brush of mouths, relearning the shape of her. Then deeper as she melts into me, her body pressing close, her fingers tightening in my hair. The heat that's always between us stirs and stretches, unhurried but unmistakable.
My hands slide down her back, retracing the curves I know better than my own reflection. Hip. Waist. The dip of her spine. She feels so fucking good in my arms, her curves pressed against me, her arms wrapped around my shoulders, holding me close. I sink into the pleasure of holding her, feeling her warm, alive, and mine in every way that word has ever meant.
I pull back before we get carried away in the kitchen where her mother might wander back out. "Come with me."
Her eyebrow arches. "Where?"
"Bedroom." She doesn't resist as I slide off the barstool and take her hand in mine. "I have something for you."
I lead her down the hall, into the sanctuary of our room. Morning light spills through the windows here too, catching the smooth linens on the bed, the soft gray of the walls. I guide her to sit on the edge of the mattress, then release her hand.
"Wait here."
I step into the huge walk-in closet and retrieve the box I've been keeping hidden for weeks. Large, tied with a silk ribbon the color of champagne. I'd planned to give her this on our wedding night—the public one, the one the world would see. But after everything we've been through, waiting feels wrong. She deserves this now. She deserves to know what's waiting for us on the other side of Saturday.
When I return, Avery's watching me with curiosity bright in her eyes. I set the box on the bed beside her.
"I wanted to give you this after the wedding." My voice is low, raspy with emotion. "I wanted to wait until the timing was perfect, but—" I stop. There's no need to finish that sentence. She knows.
She pulls the ribbon loose with careful fingers. Lifts the lid. And goes still.
Inside, nestled in soft foam, rests a scale model of the sailing yacht I purchased for her. Every detail rendered in miniature. The sleek hull, the polished brass, the crisp white sails unfurled as though they’re filled with sea air. She lifts it out, turning it in her hands, wonder transforming her face.
Then she sees the name painted on the stern.Elysium.
Something moves over her expression, a reaction I can't quite read. She inhales a small breath. Her eyes go wide, then soften with a delight that seems almost secret. She looks up at me, then back at the model, and there's an intensity in her face that doesn't match simple appreciation of a gift.
"Nick." Her voice carries a weight I don't understand. "You named itElysium?"
I nod. "It felt right." I pull out my phone, open the live webcam feed I've bookmarked. "She's real. Waiting for us in the Mediterranean."
The screen shows sun-drenched turquoise water, a slip at a private marina, and the actual yacht gleaming at dock. Avery stares at the image, her lips parted, that secret emotion still playing across her features.
"I had her completely refurbished," I continue, watching her face. "Polished teak, brass fixtures, books in every cabin. There's even a storage space for an easel and your paints." I set the phone aside, needing to see her eyes when I say the rest. "For our honeymoon. Just you and me, sailing wherever we want to go. Minimal crew, open water, no entourage. Just us."
She sets the model down with exquisite care. Her eyes are bright but filled with welling tears. Not sadness. Joy and something else. Something I'm still trying to read.
"Nick, I love it." The words are fierce. Choked with emotion. "I love it, and I love you, and—" She breaks off, a laugh escaping her that sounds almost giddy. "Wait here. Don't move."
She scrambles off the bed and disappears into her own closet. I hear things shifting, being moved aside. Then she emerges carrying a large, wrapped canvas. It's substantial, clearly a major piece.
Her expression has changed. The secret delight has given way to naked vulnerability. She holds the painting against her chest, her teeth catching her lower lip in the tell I know so well.
She's nervous to let me see it.
"I've been working on this for months," she says, her voice small. "I hope you like it."
She places the gift on the bed before me. I unwrap it slowly, giving the moment the weight it deserves.
The canvas emerges.
For a long moment, I simply look. Let my eyes move across the surface the way I'd scan a horizon at sea, reading what the colors and shapes are telling me.
