When I walk back into the bedroom, the playful mood has shifted slightly. Luca is sitting up against the headboard, the duvet bunched at his hips, frowning at his phone.
“The world is calling?” I ask softly, remembering that my husband is a big deal.
“Agent, a photoshoot, and some school charity event Tatum’s roped me into,” he sighs, tossing the phone onto the nightstand.
The mention of his life—his real life—brings the heavy truth crashing back in. I sit next to him on the edge of the bed, my voice dropping. “We should talk about Croix, Luca. We need to figure out—”
He reaches out, his massive hands framing my face and effectively silencing me. He leans in to kiss me deeply with a slow, lingering heat that makes my brain power down for a second.
What was I saying again?
“Slow down, wife,” he whispers against my lips. “Can we just have the morning? Can we justbe herefor a second before we dive into Croix and complications?”
I look into his eyes and nod. I want that too. I want to pretend the rest of the world doesn't exist for just one hour more.
“Okay,” I breathe. “Hungry?”
“Starving. But for actual food this time,” he says, his thumb tracing my jawline. “Are you going to make me breakfast in bed?”
“Oh, goodness, no.”
He frowns, playfully. “My wife doesn’t cook?”
“Your wife has weak legs and deserves a break,” I laugh, leaning into his touch. “I’ll cook when you haven’t had me up all night in an unknown number of positions.”
“I’m still not done with you,” he warns, and I believe him. The man is absolutely insatiable.
“Yeah, we’re going to have to talk more about your proclivities, Mr. Chidubem. Something tells me you’re hiding a lot more than whipped cream kinks.”
He grins, then gives me a slow, knowing wink. “You know me so well already. You’ve clearly been internet stalking me.”
I roll my eyes. Because I have. “Whatever. Nana Shirley’s Small Cakes has the best pancakes and French toast in the city. I’ll order delivery from there.”
While we wait for the food, the space between us fills with everything we’ve missed or didn’t know. I lie in his arms, curled into the solid warmth of his chest, as we trade stories of our lives and histories. It feels as though we’re simply picking up where we left off in another lifetime. Our rhythm always so effortless and natural it makes my throat tight with unshed tears.
“Who was your first love?” I ask.
“Rose McGarrity. Twelve years old,” he answers instantly.
“That rolled off your tongue mighty fast.”
He laughs, the sound vibrating through his chest and into mine. “I mean, come on! Who forgets their first love? What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Who was your first love?”
“I’m not sure I’ve ever been in love,” I admit. “Not for real. Not the kind you read about.”
“How old are you? How is that possible?”
“Thirty four and it's possible. Trust me. Growing up, whenever I got too close to a boy, my mother would always say I didn't know anything about love. And as I got older, seeing what other women have suffered through in the name of it, I realize she must have been right. I’ve always refused to settle just to force feeling like I have something with someone. If that’s what love is, I don’t want it.”
“That’s sad,” he observes quietly.
“Why do you say that?”
“I mean, not the forcing love part. The the fact that you won’t even give it a shot for real. Because who cares if it has problems or ups and downs? That’s the point,” he says, his tone intensifying. “You indulge to learn. You find pieces of yourself in experiences and places you never would’ve reached without that person. You’re closing yourself off to so much possibility by intentionally avoiding it all the time.”
