Page 10 of Guilty as Sin

I don’t notice what I have for dinner, though I’m pretty sure I eat. For the most part, all I do is watch my new wife.

“You’re staring at me,” she says, accusation in her voice. She doesn’t look up from her halibut.

We’re sitting at a small table just the two of us. Side by side beneath a floral altar, facing out at the rest of the room.

“You were staring at me the entire ceremony,” I point out.

“That was different. We were face-to-face. There was nothing else to look at.”

“You couldn’t look away from me, you mean.”

She looks at me then. I can tell it’s an accident because she immediately looks back at her plate. Her cheeks turn the slightest shade of red. But her voice remains cool.

“If that’s what you want to tell yourself.”

I hum in amusement as she spears another bite of halibut onto her fork. She swipes it through her mashed potatoes before bringing it to her lips. I watch her tongue press against the tines of her fork as her lips close around it. I envy that piece of metal in a way I never thought possible.

When she lays the fork aside, I’m tempted to pocket it. To steal all of her utensils so she’s forced to eat from my hands. Her tongue would caress my thumb as I slip each small bite between her lips.

She takes a sip of champagne. Her glass is almost empty after Da’s toast, and I motion for a server to refill it. The one who steps forward is a young man.

Big mistake.

I glower at him as he approaches my wife. He’s about to have a prime view of her cleavage as he pours her glass.

“No,” I growl at him. “Someone else. Her.”

Red-faced, he hurries away to the middle-aged server I indicated. He hands her the bottle. If they exchange words, I don’t hear.

My wife saw everything that happened. She does not look pleased.

That’s too damn bad for her. I shouldn’t have to explain why I don’t want other men ogling her breasts.

The female server refills Cora’s glass with her eyes trained on the champagne. My wife beams up at her, her smile so wide I’m sure it’s meant to irritate me. It’s working.

“Thank you,” Cora says, almost obsequiously. The server nods but says nothing as she backs away.

“Dance with me,” I say, my voice still rough. My wife pauses with her champagne glass halfway to her lips.

“It isn’t time yet.”

I watch the young male server retreat into the kitchen. The heat of my jealousy cools. For now. I crack my neck.

“I know it’s not time yet.” When I return my gaze to my wife, I can’t help but grin. “I just want an excuse for you to be face-to-face with me again. So you’ll have nothing else to look at.”

She slides her eyes toward me. And is that the twitch of a smile on her lips?

“Fine.” She stands up abruptly, tossing her napkin onto the table like a white flag of surrender.

Grinning with victory, I take my wife’s hand and lead her to the dance floor. The DJ takes a few moments to realize what’s happening. Then he cuts the instrumental dinner music. He announces that it looks like it’s time for the bride and groom’s first dance.

Damn right it is.

I don’t know what song to expect. What comes on is the classic version of “I Only Have Eyes for You” by that old Chicago band.

I put my hand on Cora’s waist, then pull her sharply closer to me.

She catches herself with her hand on my shoulder. She looks flustered, but only briefly. With the song’s slow start, we fall into a natural rhythm.