Tilts her head back to look at me, water droplets clinging to her eyelashes.
"Yeah?"
I study her face—flushed from the heat, eyes bright despite her exhaustion, lips curved in that unconscious smile she wears when she's happy.
"Keep going," I tell her quietly.
Her smile widens.
And she launches immediately into something about the invention of the safety pin.
I hold her closer and let her words wash over me like the steam rising from the bath.
After nearly an hour of soaking, I step out of the tub and wrap Emmaleen in a towel—thick Egyptian cotton, soft enough that she sighs against the fabric.
I lift her easily, carrying her into the massive walk-in closet. The space is absurd—big enough to be classified as a two-bedroom apartment. Custom shelving lines every wall. My suits organized by shade on one side. Her side a riot of color and texture.
She collects vintage outfits now. Not because she admires the fashion of times gone by—I'm fairly certain Emmaleen Rourke has no idea what the word fashion even means. Shecollects them to punish me when I come home from work at an unreasonable hour.
She will not sleep until I'm home. So she passes the time playing dress up.
Hideous outfits from the Eighties, mostly.
She's always sitting on the top step, looking down at the foyer, when I come through the door. Then she'll stand, descend slowly—her performance mocking and filled with silent sarcasm—while reciting poetry.
Not terza rima, that's serious stuff. Words I like.
No. When she's wearing neon spandex with leg warmers the words are simple and stupid. Limericks, mostly.
There once was a mobster quite feared,
Who arrived home much later than cleared.
His girl waited up top,
In neon that made his heart stop,
And recited a verse that he sneered.
This fucking woman. I swear.
How did I get so lucky?
I set her down on the velvet bench that acts as the boundary between our territories.
She's tired now. Quiet. Watching me as I towel off.
Not hungry. She needs rest and we both know it.
But satisfied.
I pull on sweats and turn to search for underwear and a t-shirt for her. Something soft. Something that won't irritate her skin after Lorcan's fuck-athon.
"Giovanni?"
I glance back. "Hmm?"
She's still wrapped in the towel, head tilted slightly, pale green sea-glass eyes tracking my movements with lazy focus.
