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“No, you’re getting dressed first.”
“Why? You don't trust yourself.” She poked me in the stomach.
Tapping her butt, I said, “I don’t. Chef is coming to cook dinner for us, and I’d rather not have my wife naked. That’s only for my eyes.
“In a few days, we leave for our trip. Are you excited?” Nyla slid her arms into the silky pink robe.
“A vacation alone with you in a private suite,” I winked, taking my robe off the back of the bathroom door.
“All right, so where’s the surprise?” Nyla held out her hand.
“Downstairs and you have to close your eyes.”
“Vincenzo… really.”
“Tell me what’s the one thing you loved to do with your parents when you were younger?” I walked her out of the bedroom, downstairs, and down the hall to the other side of the house, next to the game room.
“Travel and take pictures.”
“Open the door.”
“What’s behind the door?”
“Open it and see.”
She looked perplexed, turning the knob, pushing it open, watching the expression of shock across her face.
“Oh, my God, you didn’t.” Nyla clasped her hand against her mouth, tears falling. She wandered around the room, staring at large, blown-up pictures of herself when she was younger. I’d had my team clean up a spare room and turn it into a photography darkroom for her to do what she loved and missed most.
“How did you even have time to do this?”
I drank in the comfort of her nearness. “Pays to be a billionaire.”
“I’m speechless.” She admired the room, and I felt her caress my arm.
“You like it?”
“Like it? Vincenzo, you amaze me.”
The idea of her eagerness excited me. “Are you about to cry again?”
“A happy cry, because you looked beyond what mistakes I made and saw the real me.”
“Your past is the past.”
“Thank you.” The very air around her seemed electrified.
“You’re welcome.”
“Does this mean I can take photos of you?”
“No.”
She whined, stomping her feet. “Why not?” she asked, gliding her hand on my back.
“Baby, we don’t leave photos around for evidence.”
Her mouth dropped, and she shook her head.
