I never really dreamed of a grand love story for myself, but this sham of a wedding still feels wrong. It’s like I’m losing something I never realized that I wanted.
9
MAURA
My husband stands on the other side of the elevator, his eyes fixed on the buttons on the wall. The space between us isn’t chilly or cold, or even awkward. It’s tentative, like neither of us are sure how the other one hopes this will go.
It’s been like this since the wedding. The short, almost businesslike ceremony seemed to set the tone for our marriage thus far. James has been polite and thoughtful, making sure my glass of sparkling cider was always full and staying at my side while we circulated through our guests. He’s barely touched me since our kiss at the altar.
It was a nice kiss—longer than I expected.Morethan I expected. It’s probably just my nerves making me imagine the butterflies in my stomach is a spark between us, but I felt it.
Tonight, I’m going to find out how far that spark can stretch.
James is still wearing his tuxedo, but my stylist sped me back to my hotel room so I could change into my third bridal outfit. I like this one best; a long ivory silk skirt paired with a white knit top that hugs my torso. I wonder if James likes how I look in it—if he even thinks about the things I wear.
I glance over at him again, and wonder if we’re really doing this. He must be thinking along the same lines, because he asks, “Do you still want to spend tonight with me?”
“Yes. I mean, I’m ovulating, and we have the contract.”
“But you don’t have to if you don’t want to.” He turns to look at me, his gaze intense. “You can change your mind. We don’t have to do this tonight.”
“I want to, though. It just…it feels right.” James is my husband now, after all. I don’t want to go to bed without consummating our marriage. It would feel like we left something unfinished.
He nods. “Good. It’s what I want, too.”
My heart flutters. Does he mean he wants to fulfil the contract and try for a baby? Or does that mean he wants me? It feels foolish to wish for the latter, but I can’t help it. It’s not so crazy to hope your husband is attracted to you.
The elevator doors open to the penthouse apartment. James ushers me forward, his hand pressing lightly on my lower back. “Welcome home,” he says.
I look around, wide-eyed. I didn’t spend too much time imagining what James’s apartment would look like, but it probably would have been something like the room in front of me. There’s a wide, open living room with high ceilings, and a lofted opening above to the second floor. The furnishing is elegant and sparse, lots of pale grays and chromes. Through the windows, the city buildings sparkle.
“Your father had your things sent over last night,” James says. “My staff unpacked. If there’s anything you can’t find, my housekeeper has an itemized list.”
“Okay,” I say, nodding.
He leads me from the living room into the kitchen, where there’s more gray and plenty of high-end appliances. Then, we walk into his home office, featuring even more gray. The patterncontinues through the two guest rooms, the dining room, and the linen closet. I’m starting to feel like I stumbled into an old sitcom, before they started filming in color.
Finally, he leads me up a staircase to the second floor, to the room I’m most interested in seeing. “This is your studio.”
He opens the door and I’m greeted by the familiar scent of fresh paint. It immediately sets me at ease, even though the paint is on the walls and not a canvas. I walk inside, taking in the space. It’s beautiful, with the plywood still against the walls, the beginning of a series of shelves, I think. The space is large, easily twice the size of my old bedroom. Windows look out on the city below. I can already imagine hanging plants in front of them, adding a natural contrast to the urban sprawl.
“The contractors are still finishing it,” James says. “You should be able to move in and work by mid-week, though. If you have any requests, I can ask?—”
“It’s perfect,” I say, interrupting him. “Really. The best wedding present I could ask for.”
He smiles. It’s small, but I can tell he’s pleased. “Good. Your room is right next door.”
“Not our room?” I raise my brows.
“I thought you’d prefer to have your own space.”
I grin. “You thought right. Thank you.” Maybe one day, I’ll want to share a room with my husband, but we’re far,faraway from that happening.
As soon as I walk inside my room, I can tell James talked to my housekeeper—or rather, my father’s housekeeper, now. The room is too tailored to me to have been designed any other way. It’s thoughtful of James, or of whatever employee of his designed my room.
There’s a king-sized bed with a plush, pale blue comforter and plenty of pillows. The bookshelves are already full of my books from back home. A plush navy armchair sits in the corner,the perfect place to curl up and read. When I walk over to the white wood dresser, I find that the top drawer contains my socks and underwear. Everything I own was moved seamlessly into my new home, without me even lifting my finger.
It’s all wonderful, except for the most important part.
