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I study her sleek, straight hair as we make our way toward the city. Silky smooth and hanging over a bare shoulder, she provides the perfect canvass for touching… tasting.
Marking.
You’d never know she was pregnant a few short months ago. Despite her annoying declaration of her intentions to return to training, she hasn’t gone back yet – though she does have the medical clearance to do so.
But breastfeeding a voracious baby, and muscle mass that she built over two decades in the gym, means she’s officially back to pre-Bean weight.
Her hips are a touch wider. Her breasts are definitely bigger. But no one on the street would ever look at her skin-tight black leather pants tonight and know we have a two-month-old baby at home.
I smile at her smoky makeup, her floaty top, her beige ankle boots that tease with just the smallest peek of creamy flesh, and when she turns to me in question, I simply shrug. “You look very pretty tonight. Are you hungry?”
“Mm. Starving.” She places a hand over her stomach. “I don’t remember the last time Iwasn’tstarving.”
“Bean takes everything for herself.”
“Yeah well, she’s gained ten pounds since birth.” She snickers. “Our daughter’s stocking up for a hard winter. So where are we eating tonight?”
“We’re eating at Oliver’s.”
“What’s Oliver’s?”
“It’s a fancy Italian place.”
“Have you ever eaten there?”
“No, but one of the guys at the gym recommended it. He said it was amazing.”
“Cool. I love Italian.”
I laugh. “I know, Bubs. We’ve been best friends since you learned how to stop crapping your pants.”
She smacks me in the gut and grunts when I catch her hand. “Don’t say that shit. It’s embarrassing.”
“Why you mad, boo? It’s the truth.”
She snorts and goes back to watching the road. “I can’t even with you right now.”
I smile like an idiot and work along the packed streets as we make our way closer to Oliver’s.
Ninety minutes after leaving Bean, we pull into the restaurant’s driveway and stop at the valet. “Are you ready?”
Shedding her nerves and smiling like this is a first date – which it kind of is – she nods. “I’m ready.”
I hop out and pass cash and my keys to the valet – since he’s used to parking Maserati’s, not Jeeps that were manufactured in the 90’s – then I rush around to Iz’s side and shoo away the other guy.
Mywife.Mydate.
I’ve got this.
She slides out and bats her lashes like a fool. “Well, thank you, Mr. Kincaid.”
I don’t know if she’s the best flirt I’ve ever met, or the worst, but I play along anyway. Waggling my brows and taking a handful of her ass, I move us along and smile at her silly giggles. “You’re welcome, Mrs. Kincaid.”
As we approach the hostess desk, I thread Izzy’s arm through mine and pretend to be a gentleman.
It takes one bill from my pocket to the hostess’ for her to transform from ‘this is a regular boring work night’ to ‘hot damn, I’m about to make a week’s worth of tips in two hours’.
“Come this way, Mr. Kincaid.”
