“Why are you being weird?”
“Why do you look like you’re going to a funeral?” She’s dressed for one, too.
She pivots and begins trudging along the crazy-paved garden path, bordered by colorful summer flowers. By stark contrast, Lavender is dressed from head to foot in black. Pants, T-shirt, sweater, jacket, boots. I happen to know even her panties are black.
We’d stopped by her flat on the way back from the airport so she could change. She didn’t ask me to leave the room, though she had turned from me as she’d stripped.
Maybe she decided I’d seen it all.Felt it, too.Even if she won’t speak about our late-night interlude.
Her face is pale as she swings her dark hair over her shoulder to consider me. “Says the man dressed like he’s on the way to watch his eight-year-old play soccer.”
But the sweep of her gaze contradicts her complaint.
“You’re such a ray of sunshine, wife.”
“No one is nice when they’re hungover,” she says with a glower. “And don’t call me that.”
“Sunshine?”
She growls.
“Oh, you mean wife? My wife?” I like the sound of that more than I should. “My hot as fuck wife,” I add, purely because she looks pissed.
“You suck.”
“But only if you ask nicely.” Before I know what I’m doing, I have my arm around her waist, and I’ve hauled her against an old sycamore tree. Our bodies are glued together, and her face is in my hands. “Tell me what happened in bed last night.”
“Nothing. I told you I don’t remember.”
“Why don’t I believe you?”
“I dunno. Could it be because you’re the insecure, suspicious type?”
I say her name—say it like she’s driving me insane.
“Look, it was just a bad dream.”
My eyes on hers, I slide my thumbs over her cheeks. “Was it because of what happened on the terrace?” Are we moving too fast?
Her expression flickers, but she answers with an emphatic, “No. If you can go down on me, I can go down on you.”
“It’s not a competition, though you would probably win.” My hands slide away, and I straighten.
“A compliment?” She cocks a taunting brow.
“Only where they’re due.” I lightly touch her chin.
“Well, then you’re a good dancer.”
I smile—almost laugh. Such a prickly confessor, my wife.
“And I still think you were probably a lesbian in a former life.”
With a shake of my head, I give in to a deep chuckle.
“Come on, then,” she says, pushing from the tree. “We’d better get this over with.”
At the green-painted door with a large floral wreath, Lavender turns as she rests her foot on a Victorian-tiled step. “I hope you’re prepared for a shitstorm.”
