I shrug. “It belongs to us. I know it’s an important piece of art in the royal collection. When we move into the palace, it will come with us.” I move to stand beside her, my shoulder brushing hers. “You should’ve seen their faces when it was revealed.”
“It’s my only regret,” she says.
When she looks at me, I cup her face in my hands and press my mouth to hers.
“The tour continues,” I say when we finally break apart.
“Of course.”
I take her hand, leading her through the house, pointing out rooms as we go. The library, with its leather chairs and wall of windows overlooking the lake. The kitchen, recently modernized but still warm with its copper pots and farmhouse sink. The dining room, where we’ll host our dinner parties and eat the meals I prepare. The bedrooms upstairs, each one decorated in soft colors that complement the grounds outside.
But the room I really want to show her is at the back of the house, down a hallway lined with windows that allow the natural light inside. I stop in front of a closed door and turn to face her.
“This is for you. It was recently remodeled.”
“Recently?”
“When you painted me in the conservatory, I knew you needed this.”
I push the door open and step aside so she can see.
The studio fills the entire north wing of the house. Skylights line the ceiling, and give lighting artists dream about. The floors are worn wood that can handle paint spills and turpentine. Canvases are stacked against one wall, blank and waiting. Easels stand ready in the center of the room, along with a drafting table and shelves stocked with brushes, paints, charcoal, pencils, and every other supply she could ever need. All of it is organized and labeled for her.
On the far wall, windows look out over the grounds, the rows of flowers stretching to the horizon.
Addison walks into the room and bursts into tears.
“Aw, Addy,” I say, moving toward her, smiling. “Don’t cry.”
“You built my dream studio,” she says as I wipe tears away.
“You’re going to be queen someday. But you’ll never stop being an artist. I want you to have the freedom to create.” I kiss away her tears.
“Thank you so much,” she says.
“Check it out, babe.”
I watch her move through the space, touching the brushes, the canvases, the jars of pigment.
“I don’t want you to give up who you are. I fell in love with Addison Cross, and I never want that sassy, artistic, horny woman to disappear.”
She picks up a brush and tests the weight of it in her hand.
“Do you think you’ll ever get tired of me painting you?” she asks.
“Never. I fuckinglovebeing your muse.”
She sets the brush down and crosses the room to me. Her arms slide around my waist, and she presses her face to my chest, breathing deep. “I love you so much.”
“I love you too, Addison.”
She pulls back and gives me a mischievous look. “So, there’s one thing we need to discuss.”
The shift in her tone makes me pause. “Yes?”
“I’d like to stop taking my birth control.”
I blink at her, grinning. “Really?”
