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“Can’t you tell me what you’re thinking?” At the same time as I ask her the question, the waiter brings out her dessert. He sets it down followed by a large sparkler that crackles loudly between us.
“Aren’t you going to sing me Happy Birthday?” Fleur looks up at me, all wide eyes, innocence, and sweetness oozing from her.
“Really?”
Her pout genuinely makes me believe that’s what she’s waiting for, until a chuckle vibrates from her, becoming a broad happy smile that cuts her pretty face in half.
“Joking,” she laughs.
I continue waiting for her answer to my question as the fountain sparkler keeps going. And going.
Is that shit ever going to die out?
When it finally does, she looks up at me and says, “I think it’s the best birthday I’ve had in a very long time. Maybe ever.” She bites the strawberry on her slice of chocolate cake and swallows it before continuing. “I want to share a bed with you every night. London might not be my home anymore, but nowhere will be home if you’re not there. I want to fall asleep and wake up next to you every day.”
“What about the work offer?”
“I’m thinking it over. I don’t know that I want such a big job. I like art. I like drawing, and as much as the old classics get me all excited, I like finding new artists, so…”
“Why don’t you look for a curator position in a small gallery?”
“So…if you let me finish!” She rolls her eyes. “I was thinking of maybe acting as a freelance curator. It means that there’s less pressure, and I can take it from project to project.”
“Good idea.”
“I’m not just a pretty face, big man.”
No, she most certainly is not. There’s a lot more to my wife than most see at a glance. If I’m honest, I’m not quite sure how on God’s green earth we’ve ended up here, I’m just glad we have.
Reaching across the table, I thumb the smudge of chocolate on her lip. A sigh escapes her while I trace over her skin. “Happy Birthday, my Fleur.”
With her eyes closed and contentment lighting her face, I snap a quick photo on my phone. She has a thing for recording memories, and this is a fucking beautiful one. Her happiness.
Chapter 46
CASPER
The Opera House is teeming with people when we arrive about an hour before the performance. Ballet has never been my thing, but Georgina landed the role of Juliette, and she works hard enough that I like to support her.
Of course, since the photos from the other week were printed in the papers, the reporters are all over us. The photographers, being the usual arseholes, almost trample over each other to get a shot like we’re celebrities or something. We’re not. They’re merely looking for something they can report on the former Foreign Secretary or the Deputy Prime Minister. Even if it’s Fleur, or our secret marriage and baby. Everything becomes so sordid.
“Drink?” I ask Fleur the minute we’re past the chaos outside.
“Sure.”
“Sure?” Following her line of sight, I pause on the object of her attention.
Laura Stanton. The Prime Minister’s daughter, whom I might have used to distract myself from the woman now on my arm.
Fuck.
The crowd of London’s most elite isn’t the easiest to navigate. I’m beginning to get miffed by every fucker that stops us to ask about Charles. Every question sullies the mood from the restaurant. Every well wish fills my wife with palpable tension.
Motherfucker, this isn’t how tonight was meant to go. We were meant to have a nice meal and a few drinks. Fleur was meant to open her present and be happier, while I was going to get off on making her so. Right now, all that is falling to shit.
“Tell your father we’re thinking of him, won’t you?”
Fleur smiles at the older, balding man with a polite nod.
