“Incorrigible.” I give his chest a poke, partly to emphasize my point and partly because I’m married to the hottest man on the planet, and he’s given me permission to touch him whenever I want.
And I want. Desperately. The interlude cut short in the wine cellar was a form of torture.
When Henry raises my pokey finger to his lips and presses a kiss to the tip, I forget about Elliot and the cliff.
For the rest of the dinner, we make small talk with the others at the table, but Henry’s primary attention stays on me—on whether my chair is comfortable, whether my cane is within reach, whether I’ve had enough to eat.
When we reach the dessert course, he stops pretending to be interested in anyone else at all and turns sideways in his chair to face me directly, watching me as I speak with Noah’s relatives.
Tomorrow, we’ll dine on the terrazzo after the ceremony. Tonight, we’re in a large dining room that feels very much like a restaurant. Since it’s a destination wedding, the rehearsal dinner includes everyone who has traveled. So . . . everyone.
Janet Spencer, her short silver curls loosely framing her face, leans toward Henry and me warmly. “This was so thoughtful.”
At her words, Henry looks around the room, then nods. “Very.”
Janet double-blinks. Elliot closes his eyes and appears to give himself a stern, but silent, talking to.
I know exactly what Henry did. He assessed the dining space to determine if he agreed the design was “thoughtful.” It didn’t occur to him that Janet was expressing her appreciation for the way Henry and I covered the cost of this event as our wedding gift.
“We’re very happy for Dante and Noah. We consider them part of our family,” I say.
Henry’s brows move a millimeter closer together before, with an infinitesimal shake of his head, he appears to decide I have a handle on this particular conversational thread all on my own, and he doesn’t need to know whatever prompted my apparent random segue.
Instead, he twirls a lock of my hair around his finger, lets it unspool, then does it again. And again. And again.
When the Spencers become engaged in conversation with each other, I glance Henry’s way with a smile. He smiles back, watches my mouth for the space of three heartbeats, then looks into my eyes.
We’re not newlyweds. We haven’t been for years, but he still gives me flutters. “To think you once told me you didn’t know how to flirt,” I murmur.
“I figured it out. The trick was to stop trying to do it correctly and just do it.”
The mild ache that seems to have taken up permanent residence behind my ribs squeezes my heart. Maybe that’s the answer: Stop expecting a perfect life first.
Would it be so wrong to ask for what I want? He used to talk about one day leaving both corporate life and his dangerous vigilante missions behind. We’d get jobs at the same university. Then, we’d have kids.
He hasn’t said the word “someday” in at least three years. Henry tends to think in “all or nothing.” Maybe he can’t visualize one part of our dream coming true until all of it does. It looks more every day like none of it will.
“Franki,” he murmurs gently.
Startled, I turn my focus back to Henry and do my best to plaster a “normal” look on my face. “Hmm?”
His navy eyes search mine. “If you need to leave, for any reason, whatsoever, I will have you out of here in two minutes flat. Talk to me.”
Oh, this man.
I press my palm to his cheek, the coarse beginnings of his evening scruff tickling my fingers. “I’m fine.”
His jaw flexes. “Something is wrong. Your patterns have changed.”
“I was just distracted. Running through our schedule in my head.” Not exactly a lie, even if the context is misleading.
That word . . . misleading . . . hits me like an icy splash of water. Trust was hard-won between us. We don’t lie to each other. Not ever.
Which means I have to figure out how to talk to him without leaving one of us raw. Soon.
Sunday works. It’ll be after the wedding excitement, while we’re soaking up some sun and drinking in the local flavor. It’s close enough to assuage my guilt and far enough away to let me relax tonight.
As long as Henry doesn’t keep returning to it like a dog with a bone.
