I groan, but we both know I don’t really mean it. “Fine,” I agree. “I’ll run. But I want it noted and acknowledged that the only thing that could get me to do such a wretched thing is the depth of my love for you.”
“So noted and acknowledged,” she replies, squishing my hand. “And appreciated.”
I kiss her knuckles before reluctantly taking my hand back so that I can swing the Porsche into a parking garage and pull up tothe ticket machine. “Now I need you to tell me how I’m supposed to enjoy our movie date when all I’ll be able to think about is the dreaded exercise I’m about to partake in.”
She sighs and shakes her head. “You won’t be thinking about exercising during the movie, Ivy.”
“Oh?” I ask as I roll my window down and take a ticket from the garage machine. “And how do you know that?”
“Because,” she says, “you’ll be too busy thinking about my hand in yours, and how richly the touch makes me blush.”
My eyes bug out, and my head whips toward her to see the warmth she speaks of. Sure enough, her cheeks blaze, and despite her confident words, her eyes can’t meet mine.
Oh. My. Flag.
My wife is flirting with me.
Oh. My.Flag.
Mapleisflirtingwithme.
“I think you’re right,” I breathe, awe and wonder coating the air between us. “I might not think about anything else ever again.”
Her pink cheeks bloom hotter as the garage barrier rises to let us through. With haste, I turn forward and rocket past the obstacle.
“Movie,” I mutter. “Hand. Blush.”
Who cares if my future holds running when it also holds my rosy Maple, sweet and soft beneath my hand? I’ll run a thousand miles if the promise of her is at the end of them.
In the theater, Maple is right. I don’t think about exercise. I don’t think about the movie, either, or the popcorn someone’s minions are throwing behind us.
I think only of her, and her hand, and the blush that I cannot see—that she allows me tofeelinstead, with my nose upon her skin, followed by my mouth.
In a dark, crowded room, I think only of my wife, and of the heat of her love.
Chapter Eighteen
?
Maple
The lighting in the lobby is horrible. Fluorescent, artificial, and leaning yellow, it makes the hues of my painting appear more gray and amber than blue and gold, and the glare is something awful.
“You could always drag your studio back upstairs to your suite,” Etta suggests for the third time, “and out of the public hotel lobby, where guests are, of course, welcome to rest, but we as a business do generally recommend enjoying the more hobby-centric portion of your stay in your rooms.”
“I’m not going back to my room, Etta,” I huff. “That room is cursed. I can’t work in there. Every time I try to fix this blasted scene, I get nowhere. I need fresh eyes—a change in perspective. If you’re not kicking me out, I’ll get that here.”
She smiles woodenly from behind her counter. “Of course we aren’t kicking you out, Mrs. Swallow.”
Ohhh, she’s mad mad. She hasn’tMrs. Swallowed me in days.
I’d probably care more if I weren’t so desperate to fix my painting. Unfortunately for her, my priorities lie with my art today, not her job satisfaction. Though, personally, I feel I’m contributing to both at the moment.
I educate her on that fact.
“If I drug all this back up to my room, then we wouldn’t be hanging out anymore,” I inform her. “I’m multitasking. You’re welcome.”
“We’re so honored,” she replies dryly.
