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Hand in hand, we walk down the street, looking at the New York skyline across the river.
“Be honest, do you like it here?”
“I do. It’s completely different from home, and your neighborhood is much quieter than I expected.”
“We’ll check out the option for schools in our neighborhood tomorrow.”
Ours.
“Chloe is making a list,” I tell him. “She’s going to be a great teacher.”
“Or cosmetologist.” He chuckles, as it’s become an inside joke for all three of us.
“She’s leaning more into teaching. It’s more stable. She said she could still teach with a broken?—”
He turns me to face him, cups my cheeks, and leans down to take my lips. One hand moves down my neck, gripping the base, and he uses his thumb to press the underside of my chin, causing me to lean back and open more fully to him.
He licks and sucks along the skin of my jaw, my neck, across my collarbone. He moves to claim my mouth again, his tongue swiping up and down mine, tasting me, groaning as he breaks our kiss.
“I just couldn’t go another minute without kissing those beautiful lips of yours, wife.”
“You don’t hear me complaining, husband.” And it’s a good thing he doesn’t hear my body buzzing or my insides softening as my core heats up.
“I should probably be the gentleman Mom taught me to be and take my wife to dinner instead of ravishing her on a sidewalk.”
Somehow, I manage to keep my thoughts about that to myself and attempt to be a lady. It’s not easy though because I love the way Pope ravishes me.
He moves to my side—closest to the road, of course—and takes my hand as we head to the crosswalk.
As we get closer, I swear I can smell the scent of garlic, tomatoes, and herbs in the air.
“This isn’t just an Italian restaurant; it’s a hidden gem.”
“So, you’ve been here before?”
“I’ve never brought a woman here, Whitley, but I’ve had my share of takeout. You’re going to love it.”
We hurry across the road, still hand in hand, and he opens the door for me. “After you.”
“Right this way, Mr. and Mrs. Paul,” the hostess says, and I can’t help but grin up at him.
He places his hand on the small of my back and guides me through rustic wooden tables, all topped with a candle, casting a spell of intimacy inside of this adorable little place.
I notice the black-and-white photographs on the wall are all people standing in front of rolling hills and a quaint village; it’s quite stunning.
The sound of quiet conversation fills the air, as do the occasional clink of glasses and gentle instrumental music playing softly in the background. The ambiance is truly romantic. And I am so glad it is.
We’re seated at a corner table for two, giving us a bit of privacy.
John Paul pulls my chair out for me, and I say, “thank you.”
He bends down and kisses the top of my head before walking around the table to take the seat beside me.
The hostess hands us a menu; it’s handwritten in elegant script, almost like a love letter. I’m going to have to trust him on what to order, being that the only thing I recognize is chicken Parmesan.
I don’t even have to tell him that I want him to order he just does, and he also orders a bottle of red wine, a shared antipasto platter to start.
“Does that sound okay to you?” he asks.
