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Moving through the parking lot, we step into the elevator in silence. Vincent stands in one corner of the metal box, and unsure what to do with myself, I choose the other. He frowns at me, fists clenching around my two bags.
An older woman joins us on the next floor, smiling at us widely. Her eyes track the flow of my dress in dreamy appreciation.
I smile awkwardly back. Vincent ignores her.
“You look stunning.” The older woman turns to me, and I force another smile.
“Thank you.”
“Bet this one can’t keep his hands off you.” She winks.
“Oh, he’s insatiable,” I say when, in truth, I want to ask her if she’s senile. We couldn’t look further from the fantasy of newlyweds in love if we tried.
But she grins, oblivious to the shadowing of my heart. “I remember when I married my husband. He’s dead now, God rest his soul, but we were all hands and lips. It must have been a sight for anyone in the vicinity.” She laughs.
My smile morphs into one of genuine joy, the love this woman holds for her late husband palpable. But as soon as the feeling catches me, regret and longing take its place. I glance at Vincent, saddened by the knowledge that we’ll never be consumed with one another enough to let lust blind us in the confines of an elevator with an audience.
“What floor are you on?”
The woman looks at Vincent, shifting in discomfort at his harsh tone. “Oh, umm, two more to go.”
“Bianca,” he murmurs. “Come here.”
The lady gives me an encouraging smile, and I take the few steps over to my husband. He shifts both of my bags into one hand, his free hand circling my waist and pulling me into his side. My chest rested against the side of his, I tentatively lay my hand along his stomach, fingers itching to trace the divots of muscle beneath his shirt. He looks down at my hand, considering it for a moment before lifting his head.
“Your floor,” he says to the woman without looking at her.
The doors slide open, and she steps through. “Congratulations!” she yells out as the doors close again.
I expect Vincent to remove his touch, but he holds me close. Encouraged by his outward display of affection, however small it may be, I shift my hand to his chest, enjoying the feel of his pounding heartbeat.
The elevator stops on his floor, and he lets me go. I mourn the loss of his touch but hide the disappointment by grabbing at my dress. Stepping forward, he braces his palm over the door. “After you.”
I cross the threshold of the elevator into the penthouse.
“That lady seemed nice.” I don’t know why I need to fill the uncomfortable silence with wearisome small talk, but I can’t stop myself.
“She was nosy.”
“Hardly. She congratulated us.”
He grunts in disapproval. “And made you feel inferior because my tongue wasn’t down your throat.”
He knew that? Is that why he called me over? In an attempt to soothe my battered ego?
My eyes scan over his space eagerly. It’s large, but you’d expect that from a penthouse. It’s minimal in its furnishings. Enough to be comfortable but sparse enough to ward off the fairy tale of a home.
“Not what you were expecting?”
“No,” I answer honestly.
He raises a single dark brow.
“I expected something more Gothic. Big and cavernous.”
He side-eyes me, the slightest eye roll catching me off guard. “Follow me.”
“Do you want me to take my shoes off?” I lift the hem of my dress, leaning down to unstrap my heels.
