He undresses me slowly, his hands familiar and sure. When he lays me down on the bed, there's no hesitation, no nervousness. Just comfort. Just us.
"You're so beautiful," he says, his eyes moving over me like he's memorizing every detail.
"You say that every time."
"Babe, that’s because it's true every time."
He kisses me deeply, his body settling over mine, and I wrap my legs around his waist. We move together easily, instinctively. I still struggle getting there myself and I fail more than I don't. But these moments with him in bed are often among my favorites of the day.
The way his breath catches when I tighten around him, the way he groans when I dig my nails into his back, the way he whispers my name like a prayer when he's close, is everything tome. Afterward, we lie tangled together, sweaty and satisfied, the late afternoon sun streaming through the windows.
"I'm never leaving this bed," I announce.
"Good. I'm never letting you."
"We have dinner reservations."
"Cancel them."
I laugh. "We can't cancel. You made them two weeks ago."
"Fine. But after dinner, we're coming straight back here."
"Deal."
We spend the next two days in a blissful haze. We go wine tasting at a nearby vineyard where Asher insists on buying three cases of a Chardonnay I fall in love with.
"Three cases?" I say as he's giving the tasting room attendant his black card. "Asher, we have wine at home."
"Not this wine."
"But three cases is?—"
"Jules." He turns to me with that slightly defensive edge in his voice. "I want to buy the wine. Stop."
I bite back my response. It's not worth the fight. And honestly, he's right—it's not a big deal in the grand scheme of things. "Okay," I say. "Three cases it is."
His expression relaxes immediately. "Thank you. You're going to love having this at home, I promise."
And he's probably right. He usually is about these things. We hike through the hills in the early morning, the air cool and smelling of wild sage. We get couples massages at the spa and I fall asleep on the table, completely relaxed.
That night at dinner, we sit outside on the restaurant's terrace under string lights, sharing a bottle of wine and aridiculous five-course tasting menu. Asher tells me about some new innovations at Ancre. I tell him about the holiday line Jamie and I are developing—bath bombs shaped like ornaments, peppermint sugar scrubs and a cinnamon scented hair perfume.
"You're going to crush it," he says. "You always do."
"I hope so. It will be our biggest holiday launch yet."
"I believe in you."
He's never once dismissed my work or treated it like a hobby the way his father does. He asks questions. He celebrates our wins. He's genuinely proud of what Jamie and I have built. His phone buzzes on the table. He glances at it, and I see his expression shift—that look he gets when work pulls at his attention.
"You can check it," I say.
"No, it's fine." But his eyes drift back to the screen.
"Asher. Just check it."
He picks up the phone and scrolls quickly, his brow furrowing. For a moment, he's completely absorbed—his thumb moving across the screen, his jaw tightening slightly. Then he seems to catch himself and sets the phone down.
