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When we finally reach our room, I pick her up—much to her delight—and set my hand with the keycard against the magnetic lock to open the door. I anticipated her saying yes, or at least coming back here with me, so I had the room prepared.
Rose petals are scattered around the floor, and a bottle of champagne together with strawberries and a small wedding cake sit on a small table to the side. The bedroom should be more of the same with an array of lingerie waiting for her in case she wants to wear something like that to bed. I didn’t want to be presumptuous, but she did wear those types of things while on the show, although I’d be happy if she just wore my shirt.
“This moment should’ve happened the day we left the show,” I say before putting her down.
“It’s beautiful, Josh.” She doesn’t leave my side like I expected her to. Instead, she keeps her arm around my waist and leaves us both standing in the room wondering what’s next.
We need to talk. We need to get shit out in the open—especially about what happened after the show was over. I can’t have anything that Jason did hanging over our heads.
“Is that cake?” she asks, breaking the silence.
“Yeah. I thought we could. . . well, not smear it all over each other’s faces, but enjoy a slice or two. It’s probably not as good as yours, though.”
Joey glances at me, smiling. “You’re rambling.”
“I’m nervous,” I say, shrugging.
“Don’t be.” Joey walks over to the cake and swipes a bit of frosting off the side. “Yum.” She licks it off her finger, humming her satisfaction. She walks over to the window with her finger still in her mouth, which sends a nice jolt straight to my groin.
When she reaches for the handle of the sliding glass door I cringe. “The cameras are out there.”
Joey turns and winks. “We can pretend we’re the Royals and step out onto the balcony and kiss for them.”
“Is that something you want to see? You’re going to be all over the tabloids.”
“It’s part of your life, right?” she asks.
“It is, but you can ignore them.”
She beckons me with her finger and I move toward her willingly. “If I’m going to be your wife I need to accept all of you, including your professional life. For three months I didn’t have to share you with the world.” She sort of nods and shakes her head at the same time after she says that. “I know what I’m getting into, Josh. I happen to think that if we’re more willing to appease them, they’ll leave us alone when we want our privacy.”
Maybe she has a point. I don’t really know because the press has only ever hounded me about my life.
“If you think it’s best.” Reaching for her hand, I guide us out onto the balcony. We both lean over at the same time and do a little people watching until someone yells our names. Once that happens, they scurry to get into position to take our photos.
“They’re crazy.”
“You have no idea,” I tell her. “But it’s their job. They have families to feed.”
“But they’re aggressive!” Joey peers over the balcony, enticing the crowd below to get louder. Unfortunately, our suite is somewhat low to the ground so the photographers are getting decent shots.
“Some are, others respect you. It’s when they’re crawling through your bushes that you start having issues with them.”
Joey blanches and I shrug. I’m used to it.
“Come stand next to me,” she says, hooking her arm with mine. I lean down and kiss her and the media frenzy below us erupts. She smiles against my lips, hopefully because I’m kissing her and not at what is happening on the streets. She’s going to quickly realize that being followed and having your every move captured is intrusive and very annoying.
“I think we should go inside,” I whisper into her ear, another perfect shot for the cameras. She nods against me, slipping her hand into mine and following me back into our room where I shut and lock the door and pull the privacy curtains closed. The last thing I need is for any part of her body to be spread across the papers in the morning.
Joey is moving around the room, side-stepping the rose petals on the floor as if it’s some type of game. I watch, in awe of her beauty, as she giggles and tries to balance herself so she doesn’t fall over.
“What are you looking at?” she asks as she tips her head shyly.
“My wife,” I answer with an inflection in my voice.
There’s a visible change in her demeanor when those words register with her. I walk toward her, careful not to mess up the petals on the floor in case she wants to dance around them again, and lift her chin to meet my gaze.
“My wife,” I say again, and watch her eyes flutter and her cheeks turn rosy. “My wife.” This time the words are a mere whisper as I repeat myself, if not for me, but for her so she knows that I’m right where I want to be.
