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Her left hand reached out for my right one. I sat down next to her, braiding our fingers together. “I finished writing two chapters for my novel and I went over some contracts for St. Victoria. Construction for the west wing begins next week.”
I dropped a kiss to her knuckles. “I’m so proud of everything you’ve accomplished.”
Darla grinned at my praise, tucking a shiny lock of hair behind her ear. She was loveliest with her hair down. “Thank you. I couldn’t have done it without your sizable donation.”
“It was nothing.” That kind of money was a drop in the ocean for me. “I want to take you on a date tomorrow, Mrs. De la Croix.”
“Take me on a honeymoon instead.”
Regret gnawed at my conscience. This started off as an arranged marriage for convenience. A honeymoon was redundant. Now things changed and I was going to rectify the situation by taking Darla on several vacations once Antoine Toussaint was buried six feet beneath the ground.
“Where would you like to go?” I grabbed her waist and hauled her into my lap.
“I want to see the whole world with you,” she said mischievously. “We can start with Italy and you can give me a ride in yourprivate jet.”
I’d been dying to give her a ride in my private jet. “Demanding little thing, aren’t you?”
“You love spoiling me and I love being spoiled by you, Zeno. Whether it’s with diamonds, fast cars, your tongue, or your cock,” Darla drawled in a bad imitation of my voice.
She was cute when she was trying to be funny. “What else do you love, baby?”
Do you loveme the way I’ve come to love you?
She pressed her lips to mine, sighing happily when my tongue flicked against hers. “I love kissing you.”
“I love”—the word was there, but I couldn’t finish the sentence—“kissing you too.”
“I also love how you’re shy and a virgin and don’t like butt stuff,” she joked. “And how you always eat anything I make.”
Darla could create a cocktail with vodka and dirt, and I’d still sip it to show this woman my appreciation. “What else?”
The need to hear the little things my wife loved about me prevailed and I felt like a teenager falling in love for the first time. It was awful, humbling, and wonderful altogether.
The teasing expression on her face morphed into something evil.
I arched an eyebrow.
“I love”—Darla cackled like a villain—“I love the sprinkling of white hair near your temples. God, older men are so sexy—”
“For the last fucking time, I do not have any white hair—”
A dog nearby barked and Darla squeaked in surprise, pushing at my chest in reflex with all her might. That singular movement tipped us backward and into the fountain with a string of yelps and curses.
“Oh my God, Zeno!”
Water splashed around us and soaked every stitch of my three-piece suit. “Darla,” I growled, wiping my face and pushing back the hair sticking to my skull.
“Oops. I’m sorry.” My wife laughed vivaciously, tossing the wet strands of her hair behind her shoulders. The gauzy fabric of her pink dress clung to her curves and crushed flower petals dotted her skin.
She was a picture worth a thousand words.
A painting come to life.
My goddess of spring.
Darla teasingly splashed more water in my direction before I grabbed her wrist and tugged her to me.
“I’m not greying yet.” I had a full head of thick black hair. “I have years before I become a silver fox.”
