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“You’ll see,” is his cryptic answer.
I look around, taking in the brick walls and the black accents and the metal chairs. And the blonde woman walking toward us.
“What a surprise!” Hannah’s voice is peppy, filled with false confidence.
Crew says nothing.
“Is it?” I question, keeping my voice short and dry.
“How are you? I heard you had a baby?” Hannah glances at my stomach, like she’s looking for evidence.
Before I have to respond, another woman approaches us. “Han, the table is ready.”
“Oh, okay,” Hannah replies. “I’ll be right there, Savannah.”
Savannah has focused on Crew. Her eyes widen appreciatively, then slide to me. “Oh my God. Iloveyour dress.”
“Thank you.” I look her over and hide a smile. “I like yours too.”
“Thanks.” Savannah glances down at the beaded bust. “It’s fromrouge’s summer line. I just love their stuff.”
Hannah’s mouth twists like she’s sucking on a slice of lemon. Savannah is clearly oblivious, but it’s obvious Hannah knows who ownsrouge.
“That’s one of yours?” Crew asks, sounding surprised. Nothing he works on has a tangible output you can run into on the street. I’ve seen strangers reading my magazine and wearing my clothes before, but it still feels strange.
“Holy shit!” Savannah suddenly exclaims. “You’re Scarlett Kensington, aren’t you?”
“Yep,” I reply. “And this is my husband, Crew. We’re celebrating our wedding anniversary.”
“Aww. That issoromantic,” Savannah gushes.
“Crew issuperromantic,” I praise. “And so supportive. On the drive here, he said the sweetest things to me.” I don’t look over, but I’m sure he’s stifling some amusement.
“You made ithardnot to.” Humor dances in those blue depths, obviously proud of the innuendo.
Hannah looks annoyed and uncomfortable. Savannah is beaming at us like we’re couple goals come to life.
A waiter approaches. “Mr. and Mrs. Kensington? Your private table is ready, if you’d like to follow me up to the terrace.”
I give Hannah and Savannah a little wave. “Enjoy your evening, ladies.”
“So I’msuper romantic?” Crew teases as we follow the maître de through the restaurant.
“You have your moments,” I reply. “And it was brag about that or trade insults with your jealous ex.”
“Hannah isn’t my ex-anything.”
“Whatever.”
“It’s cute when you’re jealous, Red.” Crew leans in, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. “Especially when you’re full of my cum.”
I suppress a shiver that has nothing to do with the fact the air conditioning is on full blast in here. The tuxedo-clad maître de keeps walking toward the elevator, completely unaware of the fact my husband’s mouth is the exact opposite of everything else in here: filthy.
The elevator’s silver doors part to reveal the rooftop. Gray stone covers the ground. Artfully placed trees and flowers interrupt the spaced tables. Twinkling lights illuminate the space. We’re the only people up here. Crew must have rented out the whole terrace.
“Wow,” I breathe.
“A server will be up shortly to take your orders. Enjoy your evening.” The man steps back into the elevator, leaving Crew and me standing alone up here. He walks over to the edge of the roof, overlooking the whole city. I follow.
