The bed beside me was empty, sheets still warm from where she’d been lying. Through the open doors to the terrace, I could see the ocean stretching endlessly and blue, but all I wanted to see was her.
I found boxer briefs on the floor and pulled them on, padding barefoot toward the kitchen area of our villa. The sight that greeted me made the tension fade.
Coco stood at the stove wearing nothing but silk turquoise robe, the hem hitting mid-thigh. Her braids were piled on top of her head in a messy bun, and she was swaying slightly to music only she could hear, completely oblivious of how beautiful she looked in the morning light.
I leaned against the doorframe, content watching her work. She moved with the same precision she brought to everything else—cracking eggs with one hand, seasoning without measuring, timing everything perfectly. This was Coco in her element, and I’d never get tired of watching her create something beautiful out of simple ingredients.
“You gonna stand there all morning or come help me?” she asked without turning around, that smile clear in her voice.
“You are so hard-headed.”
“You knew that though,” she glanced over her shoulder, eyes sparkling with mischief, “I wanted to make my husband breakfast.”
She moved around the kitchen, robe hanging off one shoulder, slippers dragging. I crossed the kitchen in three steps, sliding my arms around her waist from behind. She leaned back against my chest, and I pressed my face into her neck, breathing in that scent that had become home to me.
“Morning, Mrs. Grimson,” I murmured against her skin.
“Mmm, I like the sound of that. Even better the second time around.”
“What you making?”
“Eggs, bacon, breakfast potatoes. And…” she nodded toward the counter, “I made you some waffles.”
I looked at the plate, then at her. I’d told her once in passing that I liked waffles better than pancakes. Didn’t think she was listening.
“What? You don’t like the breakfast?” She started to turn in my arms, worried.
“No, it’s perfect. You’re perfect.”
Her expression softened.
And that was the thing about Coco that I loved the most. She insisted on taking care of me in ways I’d never experienced. Not because she had to, but because she wanted to. She saw me the man. I was just Lesley to her, a man worthy of love and all things good. Worthy of Coco. I didn’t trust easily, but had learned to trust her completely.
“Come on, let’s eat outside.”
She carried our plates out, and the way I relaxed needed to be studied.
We ate on the terrace overlooking the ocean, her feet propped in my lap, both of us stealing glances at the beach where we’d gotten married a little over twenty four hours ago. I could still see it all in my mind. The way she’d looked walking toward me on my father’s arm. The way her voice shook when she said her vows. The way she’d kissed me in front of God and everybody. There was nothing fake about this.
“What you thinking about?” she asked, catching me staring.
“How you looked in that dress. How different I felt after.”
“Different how?”
I set my fork down. “ The first time felt like signing a contract. Necessary business. Last night felt like...” I paused, searching for the right words. “Like us choosing each other. That’s what you said you wanted right. To be chosen?”
She went quiet, and I thought maybe I’d said too much. But then she smiled, that soft smile that was just for me.
“I love you, Lesley Grimson.”
“I love you too, Colecion Grimson.”
We finished eating in silence, and the waves crashed around us. When she rose to clear the dishes, I caught her wrist.
“Leave it.”
“But—”
