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I can always flit away to another group of guests, laughing and encouraging everyone to dance—something they gladly do, given the source of the music.
“How are you feeling, darling?” Mom asks when I join their little circle for a minute. “Any more tummy issues?”
“No, all good, Mom.” I give her and Dad my sunniest smile. “How are you guys?”
Mom smiles and reaches over to take Dad’s hand. “Having a great time, like everyone else. Your Peter did a wonderful job.”
“Thank you, Mom.” I beam at them both. My parents’ reaction was my biggest worry, and I’m hugely relieved that they seem to have accepted my relationship—at least outwardly. I didn’t give them a lot of choice, of course, but it’s still nice to know that they’re willing to give Peter a chance.
“There you are,” a familiar accented voice murmurs as a long arm wraps around my waist.
I look up to meet my husband’s silver gaze and grin, forgetting to be wary for the moment. “Hi. Where have you been?”
“Over with the guys,” he says, nodding toward the lake shore, and I laugh as I see the three Russians passing around what looks like a vodka bottle.
“So the stereotypes are true?” Dad asks, following my gaze, and Peter nods, smiling.
“For the most part. Personally, I prefer beer, but sometimes you really need to feel the burn.” He glances down at me, his lips still curved. “How are you feeling, ptichka?”
My breathing quickens as I notice the dark undertone in that sensuous smile. “Oh, I’m… I’m good.”
“Good.” He faces me fully and tenderly brushes his knuckles across my jaw. “I was worried.”
I swallow as my heart rate jumps another notch. We’re approaching the moment of reckoning, I can feel it.
“Why don’t you do the bouquet toss, and then we’ll say goodbye to the guests?” he suggests, as though reading my mind. “It’s been a long day, and you still might not be well.”
“Yes, darling,” my mom chimes in, happily oblivious to the undercurrents. “Why don’t the two of you head out? It’s been a wonderful party, and I’m sure everyone has had enough to eat and drink.”
I glance at the sun setting over the lake. “But—”
“Come, my love.” Peter’s arm tightens warningly around my waist, even as his smile remains in place. “Let’s go.”
“Okay.” I look at my parents. “Bye, guys. We’ll see you soon.”
“Bye, darling.” Mom takes a step toward me, and Peter releases me long enough to let me hug her and then Dad. “Congratulations again.”
“Thank you.” I give them another bright smile, and Peter leads me away to toss the bouquet and say goodbye to all the other guests.
“So, are we moving?” I ask as we exit the car next to my apartment building. My voice is a little too thin, but all the liquid courage has worn off on the ride here, leaving my heart hammering faster the closer we get to home.
“Do you want to?” Peter looks at me, his gaze veiled as we approach the building. “As I told you, I’ve found a few nice places, but I didn’t want to take the leap without consulting you.”
His tone contains no hint of mockery, but I sense it anyway. If today demonstrated anything, it’s that he still has all the power—and makes all the rules.
I decide to go along with his pretense. “Yes, I think I’d like to move. This place is too small for the two of us—and it might be nice not to have so many neighbors.”
“I agree.” His eyes take on a brighter gleam, and his voice deepens as he murmurs, “I want to have you all to myself.”
Blushing, I open my mouth to reply, but at that moment, he bends and smoothly picks me up, ignoring my startled gasp.
“Tradition,” he tells me, grinning darkly, and walks into the lobby, carrying me with his customary ease.
We pass my young female neighbors on our way to the elevator, and I hide my face against Peter’s neck as they squeal and yell out, “Congratulations!”
We definitely need to move somewhere with fewer people.
“You can set me down,” I tell Peter once we’re inside the elevator, but he just looks at me, his eyes darkening.
“Why?” he murmurs, his arms tightening around me. “I like you like this.”
My pulse spikes again as my earlier nervousness returns, and I push at Peter’s shoulders. “No, really, set me down, please.”
“Why?” His jaw hardens, all playfulness leaving his expression. “So you could run? Hole up somewhere and lie that you’re ill?”
“I was ill!” I glare up at him, anger displacing my anxiety. “Ask my mom if you don’t believe me. I threw up and had to take Pepto-Bismol.”
His dark eyebrows snap together. “What?”
“Mom told you that already. On the phone—I heard her tell you.” I push at his shoulders again as the elevator doors open and he steps out, carrying me down the hallway. “My stomach was unsettled.”
