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I know Val likes being able to see the outline of my tattoos. And even though she’s testing my patience by not responding to my last text—when I messaged to say I’d be a little late—I want her attention on me. So I dressed with her in mind.
The elevator doors slide open, and we’re assailed with festive music that grates on my already raw nerves.
I should’ve said no to this.
I also should’ve asked more questions because there are a lot of people here. I know the Chicago branch of her company has less than twenty people, so this must be a multi-company party.
My men fan out, and I step into the throng.
We’re a handful of stories up on a mezzanine floor with one side entirely open to the twenty-story atrium looking out over the river. A bar’s been set up over to my right. And to my left is a DJ stand blasting Christmas music.
This is too many corporate douchebags for the mood I’m in.
I exhale.
I’m gonna get my wife another job. She shouldn’t be wasting her time and talent around these morons.
I stop halfway through the crowd and let my gaze move over the people, searching for the only one I want to talk to.
And then I see her.
She’s across the space, near the railing overlooking the atrium, and her side is to me, showing me her profile.
But I know it’s her.
I’ll always know it’s her.
Target in sight, I move through the crowd quickly.
Having her so close fills me with a mix of relief and tension.
Relief that she’s here, and I can see she’s okay. Tension because there are so many other people here, too. And unless we’re alone in a room together, I’ll always be worried about her safety.
People move across my path, blocking her from my view, then revealing bits and pieces of her person.
When I register the splash of yellow, my steps slow.
Because just yards away from me is my beautiful wife. And she’s wearing the same exact outfit she was wearing in the airport when we first met.
I glance down at her feet and feel myself smile.
So not exactly the same. Tonight she’s wearing a pair of her wedge heels rather than tennis shoes. But it’s the same brightly colored wrap dress that doesn’t look at all like something you’d wear to a Christmas party. The same simple jewelry. The same ponytail.
But my newfound calmness slips away when I notice her posture. It’s all off.
Her back is ramrod straight. And she’s clutching her drink in front of her body, her elbows pressed hard against her sides.
It’s a defensive posture.
And my wife should never be in a defensive fucking posture.
I close the distance between me and my Valentine in four steps.
Her eyes catch mine a second before I’m at her side, and satisfaction fills my chest when I see her relax at my presence.
My fucking Valentine.
I reach out and grip the back of her neck, feeling her relax even more.
