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“No.” His head pulls back in offense. “I barely like touching the people I know. Why would I want to touch people I don’t know?”
“True,” I admit. “But there’s no way you’ve been a monk for thirty-four years.”
“Ambs, we’re not going to talk about sex.” His words are clipped and matter-of-fact.
“Why not? I’m your wife, after all.”
He stands from his seat on the couch with a heavy sigh. “Conversation over.”
“You’re no fun!” I yell after him as he crosses the room and starts up the stairs.
I watch how the fabric of his t-shirt and shorts stretch against his muscled back and his well-developed back side as he ascends each step. There is absolutely no way this man has never been with a woman. He’s a professional athlete. Admittedly, a smoking-hot professional athlete. He must get offers from women literally every day.
I shake my head, standing to carry my baby girl to her pack-and-play upstairs for her nap.
Yeah, there’s no way.
CHAPTER
TWENTY
FORD
We arrive at the jewelry store that afternoon and are led to a private room in the back, as I requested. The last thing I want to worry about while buying my wife a ring is people asking for photos or autographs. I realize the fans are a big part of my job, and I appreciate them…I do. But I don’t enjoy it. I’ve gotten better at pretending to enjoy it, but making small talk with strangers, even if they’re wearing a jersey with my number on it, is still painful.
Nella is strapped into her carrier, as per usual. I wonder if she’d like a stroller. I should buy her one.
The jewelry store owner, Mr. Vance, is the one who met us at the front and now opens a door leading to an office near the back of his store. He’s wearing a simple grey suit and pale pink tie. His hair is salt-and-pepper grey, and his hand has a simple gold wedding band, despite owning a store full of fancy rings.
As we step inside, I note the glass display case lined with navy blue velvet sitting on a large cherry-wood desk. Behind the desk is a black office chair, and in front of the desk sit two matching chairs. The overhead lights in the office seem to pour light directly onto the jewels, probably placed to make the diamonds sparkle all the more.
Amber releases a small, barely noticeable gasp as her eyes take in the gleaming diamonds. I smile to myself. Amber is a girly-girl. Always has been. Spoiling her will be so easy. I might enjoy it just as much as her, seeing her pretty face light up, knowing I’m the one who did that. It will never get old.
“Have a seat,” Mr. Vance says, stepping behind his desk.
Amber smiles at me, bouncing Nella. “Actually, I think I’ll stand so she stays happy.”
“Ah, yes, babies do like to be on the move.” He looks at Nella with a fondness that only a father could, someone who knows how fun babies can be.
I notice the family photo on his desk. Mr. Vance with his wife and three daughters. All grown now.
A pang of sadness unexpectedly hits me. How wonderful and simultaneously heartbreaking it must be to watch your children transform from small babies to grown adults. I’d never thought about it before. No wonder Mom tears up every time she looks at old photo albums.
I follow Amber to stand in front of the glass case and watch as she studies each wedding set.
“There are endless ring styles in the shop, but I selected one of each shape to get us started, and we can go from there.” Mr. Vance smiles, both of us watching Amber, who looks like a puppy with a new ball.
My eyes move away from Amber, briefly, to see the rings. They’re all pretty, but none of them look like Amber. I try to control my eyebrows, I really do. But like Amber says, they have a mind of their own.
“What are you thinking?” Amber asks, her voice quiet, but not a whisper.
“This isn’t about me. What do you think of the rings?”
She looks up at me, then over at Mr. Vance and then the rings. “They’re all so beautiful.”
I know that tone, and I know there’s a but. And that she’s too nice to voice her opinion, especially since she’s uncomfortable with me spending money on her. Something she’s going to have to get used to.
“But none of them are your style?” I ask.
