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No.
That can’t be possible.
Not today of all days.
I’d know.
I’dfeelit in my heart.
Soul.
All of sudden, the lobby door opens behind us, collecting our gazes to where not one husband is entering but two. Tom playfully jerks his thumb Slater’s direction, “Look at what the angels had me drag in.”
Reprieve gracefully dances around the pit of my stomach like the prima ballerina in The Nutcracker forcing me to release the oversized breath I had been holding since the brief phone call with Kolby.
I knew he’d make it.
It was just so unnecessary to wait untilliterallythe very last minute to show up!
“Mijo,” Ma acknowledges, light green lettering floating peacefully through the air, “we’ll save you seats.” She places a hand on his cheek and sweetly yet scoldingly states, “Do not take too long.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Her gentle pat to his face is followed by delivering one to my arm upon her departure.
The instant we’re alone in the lobby, he bashfully grins in such a way I can’t stop from cooing his name, “Cowboy…”
“Angel Cake.”
Swaying my body a step closer is attached to our predictable flirting, “Was starting to think you’d forgotten about me.”
“Impossible.” Each blue lettering lights up brighter than its predecessor. “Now, you…” he points prior to rotating his finger to curl inward, “come here to me, Arley Wahl.”
I’ve never been able to resist my husband.
And after more than a decade together, I honestly don’t see that ever changing.
Even with an occasional disappointment or two.
There’s no delay in tossing my black French coat covered arms around his expansive torso – that I swear somehow hasincreasedin definition – nor is there any hesitation in burying my face into his chest. Smells of stale mall cookies and Kolby’s overpowering cologne are undeniable, buthis scent…the one that belongs just to him…the one that reminds me of the woods and metal and gun powder…ruthlessly crushes all the others to be the one that welcomes my senses.
Reminds me of where I am.
Who I’m with.
The man Ialwayswanna be with.
Slaterbraces one hand on the small of my back and the other on the nape of my neck. The initial squeeze he executes is always the same.Ten plus years of greeting me like this and that gesture is identical to the first one he ever made. It’s protectively tight. One that tells me I am the most important thing in his whole world and swears that getting me back here in his arms was the only true mission ever on his mind. Nuzzling my nose against his chest – an action I unintentionally trained our girls to do when he arrives home from long stretches – prompts a secondary squeeze that’s accompanied by a sigh of relief so heavy it makes the service bells ring.
Low grumbles of gratitude vibrate both our figures prompting me to press myself tighter into him.
Dig my fingers deeper in the fabric cloaking his frame.
Fight the knot of tears in my throat that darts upward when he pulls back to whisper, “You can always count on me, Angel Cake. Come hell or highwater.” His thumb gives the skin in its possession a soft stroke. “Or in this case…kidnappers and Christmas carols.”
Curiosity collides into disbelief dropping my jaw. “What?!”
“Service is beginning,” sweetly announces the elderly woman near the set of double doors. “Get inside, turtle doves.”
