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Given the dress code, I expected something a bit more…formal. Like the dining area and not the kitchen where cooks also prepared meals. Clearly, my in-laws were a bit unconventional.
My clicking heels alerted them of my arrival.
“Oh, you made it!” Céline, the chicken slayer, cooed, reaching grabby hands to rope me closer for a hug. Wearing a pink gown with wrist-high gloves, my mother-in-law looked fitting for dinner with the Queen.
I smiled at her childlike wonder and gave her two perfunctory kisses on each cheek. Yves patted my shoulder and Ben and Éva offered me simple waves.
And my husband eye-fucked me in front of everyone.
Gulping, I walked to the spare seat beside him. Zeno grabbed my waist and boosted me onto the high stool, sensing my struggle with the fabric of my gown.
Céline swooned and Éva hid a giggle behind her hand.
“Thank you,” I mumbled.
Zeno pushed a strand behind my ear and lingered a little too long, his thumb brushing over my cheek in that signature manner of his. I tried not to stare at the mouth-watering picture he created with his hair slicked back, trimmed stubble, and black turtleneck underneath a tailored black pinstripe suit.
Even sitting down, he was still so big.
I stared at his thick wrist circled by an Audemars Piguet watch and his ring finger, where his wedding band sat like a stark reminder that he was mine.
“So what are we watching?” I initiated when the staff started laying out plates of Caesar salad, garlic bread, pesto pasta, and…creamy Tuscan chicken.
“Ravens versus the Leafs.” Ben poured himself a glass of wine and inched me a cautious look. “Do you watch hockey?”
“Sure, I do. Hockey is pretty sacred to my family. Plus, De Luca who plays centre for the Ravens is a fellow Vesta University alumni and an old friend of mine.”
Ben smiled in approval and winked. “I can tell you’re going to fit in with us.”
“De Luca had an impressive rookie season,” Yves commented. “Kid’s fast on his feet and good at passing. I’d be worried if the Ravens ever traded him.”
I zoned out the rest of their conversation and watched the start of the first period, while my husband’s gaze burned into my side.
When Yves said grace, I reluctantly forked a bite of my creamy Tuscan chicken.
As if she could read my thoughts, Céline asked with glee, “Do you like it, Darla?”
The taste of spinach, sundried tomato, and cream danced on my tongue. “Laurent did a fantastic job.”
“Actually, Zeno made it,” Éva chimed, twirling her pale blond locks between her fingers. “It’s one of my favourite meals.”
I whipped my face towards my husband, who calmly speared a forkful into his mouth. There was something masculine about the way his jaw worked as he masticated and swallowed. He truly relished every second of his bite.
It reminded me of how he ate me out last night.
Like I was worth savouring and worshipping.
Getyour head out of the gutter, Darla.
“You cook?” I hedged, dabbing the corners of my mouth with my napkin.
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” he replied gruffly, topping his glass with water, then filling mine like a gentleman.
“Heads-up, I saw Céline go all Freddy Krueger on that chicken,” I said miserably, low enough for only him to hear.
Zeno burst out laughing—that incredible, deep, rich laugh that caused my heart to do somersaults.
Everyone did a double take.
