Play My Game
Page 3I shake my head in mock exasperation. “Clearly I’m going to have to watch what I say around you, Mr. Stark. I mean, what if I’d said that I wanted a pied-à-terre on the moon?”
“I’m certain that can be arranged.” He twines his fingers with mine, then kisses my knuckles. “I think this is my favorite part of being married.”
“Croissants?”
“Spoiling my wife.”
I only smile. As ridiculous as Damien building a bungalow because of an offhand comment might be, I can’t deny that it makes me feel all warm and gooey inside. Then again, simply being with the man makes me feel that way.
“Do you want another?” I ask, nodding at his chocolate-stained plate.
“Offering to wait on me?”
“Anything you want,” I say. “Anything you need.”
He squeezes my hand. “I have everything I need.”
My smile is so wide that it almost hurts. Around us, I see other customers watching us and grinning, too, as if our passion is infectious. I recognize a few as neighbors, who undoubtedly know that we are newlyweds. Then again, considering how much the tabloids and social media report on our every move, I imagine that the whole world knows we’re newlyweds.
I swipe my finger through the chocolate that is left on Damien’s plate, then lift it to his lips. His brows rise ever so slightly, and then he draws my finger in, lightly sucking and sending such sparks of ecstasy through me that it’s a wonder I don’t moan with pleasure.
When I pull my finger gently away, I can’t help my smile of victory. I’m quite certain that at least someone on this deck has a smartphone and a Twitter account, and that picture will be all over social media within the hour. Normally, that would bother me.
Right now, I not only don’t care, I want it.
I want the world to see us in love. To see the way we look at each other. The way we complete each other.
“You’re smiling,” Damien says.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Good point.” He stands. “Ready?”
I nod, then start to head for the door into the bakery. He tugs me to a stop and nods to the stairs. “I’ll come back for the car when I go for a run later. Right now, let’s walk home.”
I love Southern California. Although it is technically winter, the temperature is already in the mid-sixties, with the forecast predicting highs in the seventies. I take off my shoes, and Damien does the same, and we walk in the surf, where the water is frigid no matter what the season.
We hold hands and talk about everything and nothing as we walk home. “Hard to believe we’re already into the second week of February,” I say, thinking that we’ve just come back from our honeymoon and now it’s almost Valentine’s Day. I feel a bit like a kid whose birthday is the week before Christmas. “I wasn’t even thinking about the timing when we picked our wedding day.”
“You mean the weather? It’s usually a bit colder this time of year, but it’s always comfortable.”
I glance sideways at him, wondering if he’s really that clueless. His expression, however, is entirely unreadable.
“I just meant—” I cut myself off, frustrated.
His brow furrows. “What?”
Communication, I think. Marriage is all about communication.
“I was just thinking that our first Valentine’s Day is almost here.”
“Not even close,” he says.
I don’t realize that he’s stopped until I’ve gone a few more steps. I turn back. Damien actually looks a little worried, and I confess I’m surprised. This will be our first Valentine’s Day together, and knowing Damien and romance, I’d anticipated him doing it up big. I tell myself it’s stupid to get my feelings hurt, especially since there’s a week to go, and Damien could pull off amazing with only five minutes’ notice.
Still, I can’t help feeling disappointed. Which is completely and totally unfair, but there you go.
I draw in a breath and plaster on one of my best pageant smiles. “Actually, you’re right,” I say. “As far as you and I are concerned, a week is practically a lifetime.”
“Nikki. Come here.” His voice is low and apologetic, and I keep my face bland because now I am certain that he forgot. He just … forgot.
People forget things, though, right? Even newlyweds.
Even Damien Stark.
I move into his arms, in part because he asked me to, but also because I want to be close enough to him that if I tilt my head down he won’t see the stupid, foolish, idiotic tears that are starting to well in my eyes.
He slides his hands over my arms, moving them until I’m cupping his ass—along with the small, square box tucked into his back pocket.
“Take it out.” His voice is firm, but I think I hear a faint hint of amusement.
I blink, then do as he asks. It’s a small, white cardboard box, the kind that department stores use to package jewelry. Confused, I look up at Damien, and I no longer wonder if he’s amused. It’s very clear that he is.
“Open it.”
I’m starting to feel very foolish, but I do as he asks and gently tug off the lid to reveal a necklace on which hangs a tiny glass bottle. Inside the bottle is a rolled up piece of paper.
I look up at Damien, confused. “It’s lovely.”
“Really?” I don’t wait for his reply, but use my fingernails to pull out the tiny cork. The paper is harder to get out, but Damien fishes a little army knife out of his front pocket, then passes the tiny pair of tweezers to me. I realize as he does that he’d brought the knife in anticipation of this moment.
Even with the tweezers, it takes some skill to fish out the paper. I finally manage, though, and I unscroll it, then squint at the tiny writing.
For my wife for Valentine’s Day,
A proposition, if I may—
Three clues for you,
You know what to do—
And if you want your present to claim,
You’re going to have to play my game
Now here’s the clue that I speak of:
Tell me, darling Nikki, what is sweeter than Love?
“Damien.” My voice is soft, muted by the happy, astounded tears that have clogged my throat.