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He lifts his chin, a proud and deservedly so smile on his face. “Maybe that makes me the almost romantic.” He kisses my cheek, kissing away the remnants of my tears.
“Or more than romantic,” I posit as he pulls back.
“Perhaps I am.” Another kiss. Another embrace. Another stroke of his hand along my hair.
I’m shimmering under my skin. I’m about to ask if he wants to do this again the next day. But he beats me to it. “Want to meet again tomorrow like this? A secret date in the morning? Just you and me?”
And now I’m glowing. “Yes. I can take the girls to school. You can run. We can meet back here before work.”
“Yes. We can.” He runs his knuckles down my cheek. “My more than romantic wife.”
Yes, I’m definitely floating. Or perhaps, falling.
Trouble is, the landing is going to hurt so much. Especially when he sends a bouquet of yellow roses to my chocolate shop that afternoon.
And a note with the words, Like the ones you carried down the aisle.
35
THE MAESTRO
Elodie
The next morning, the girls make plans to have boba after school again, this time with Margo, before they come to my shop. I say yes, then after I drop off Eliza, I’m doing math in my head. Calculating when Gage will return from his run. How much time I have.
Just enough.
I’m compelled. Utterly compelled. I’m not even sure why specifically, but there’s something I want badly for our secret date.
And I want it now.
Picking up the pace, I race walk the final blocks to Zane’s house, fingers crossed. When I unlock the door, I check the foyer for the sign of running shoes just shed. Nope. He must still be pounding the pavement in his sneakers.
I kick off my shoes.
Rushing upstairs, I head to my room, strip out of my exercise pants, then shimmy into a black bustier and matching lace panties.
I hustle over to the nightstand, grab a friend, then lie back on the covers. I click on my favorite site, finding a video I bookmarked a while ago. One that just gets the job done.
I get myself in the mood.
A few minutes later, the door snicks open.
I smile mischievously.
I shift to my side, my back to the door, the phone propped against a pillow. The woman in the video does the same, her hand playing the role of the vibrator, coasting down her curves and over her breasts, then settling between her thighs.
With her first throaty moan, I tremble too, picturing what’s to come as I rub the toy against my panties.
On the screen a man arrives in the doorway, leans his forearm against it, watches her.
My breath catches.
I turn the toy up a level, brushing it against the dampening lace, over my clit. The man stares at her for a few hungry seconds, unbeknownst to her. She startles, but not for long. She turns to him, a come-hither look in her eyes.
My pulse surges as the man on the screen stalks into the room. Then it speeds even faster when Gage calls out, “Hey, baby.”
My eyes flutter closed from the nickname.
