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“You have,” I say, tightening my fingers around his. “God, Victor, what are we going to do? Stay married? Are we truly married?”
His lips curl into a smile. The sight sends an ache through my chest. “Yes, we are. Although I’m going to take my wife out on a lot of dates. More than most husbands.”
“More than most husbands, huh?”
Victor slides his chair next to mine, ignoring the disapproving looks of the people sitting behind us. He puts his arm around me. I grip his hand, resting on my shoulder, and feel the cold metal of his wedding band against my palm.
“If we’re going to be married,” he says, “we’re going to be the best married couple ever.”
I laugh. “You’re too competitive for your own good.”
He kisses me, right there in the restaurant. I feel light enough to float away at the touch. A proper marriage. A proper relationship. Dates. My husband.
Love is a beautiful ache in my chest, and the words dance on my tongue. I swallow them for now and give him a wide smile. Not yet. Not now. They’ll be my secret for a while.
“I don’t have to be competitive anymore,” he says. “I won you.”
My grin widens. “Flatterer.”
“I’m learning.”
“But I have to tell you,” I say, tapping my fingers along his jaw. “If you ever have your assistant send me flowers, I’m going to refuse them by the door.”
“White lilies with pink peonies,” he says. “I remember, and I’ll get them for you myself. I promise.”
26
Cecilia
“He shouldn’t be emailing you this much,” Victor says. “You’re on vacation.”
I look over my shoulder at my grumpy husband. He’s lying in the shade, a dog-eared biography beside him on the wide lounge chair. Despite the privacy of our backyard and private pool, he’s wearing swim trunks.
Not me. I’d packed cute bikinis I hadn’t used yet.
“He’s not on vacation,” I say. “You know Carter is helping me set this up. I can’t afford to be picky about when I answer an email.”
Victor’s look tells me I should be pickier. I smile and finish off the quick email, sending it off.I close the laptop and shove it back in the shade.
I turn to him. “That’s not what’s really bothering you, is it?”
His eyes run over my body with naked appreciation, stopping at my breasts. My skin is picking up a tan in record-speed here in Barbados.
“No, that’s not what’s bothering me,” he murmurs.
I push him back on the lounge chair. He leans back with a grin and grips my hips, settling me cross-legged over him.
“A private pool was an excellent decision,” he says.
“It was,” I say. “But you’re still annoyed that Carter’s investing, despite it being your idea.”
He focuses on my skin instead of my face, fingers painting patterns over my stomach and hips, occasionally brushing across the underside of my breasts. He’s getting a tan too, the sun has started to bleach his dark blond hair, and he hasn’t shaved in days.
He looks glorious.
“Victor?”
“Yes,” he says. “Fine. I’d rather it was me investing. Call it illogical or just plain sexist, I don’t know.”
