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Her.
No one has ever made me laugh like she does.
Or smile.
Or even think about smiling.
From the moment she arrived, I knew in a weird way she was my bat signal.
The light that could summon me from anywhere.
At any time.
Forgetting that for even a moment is a crime that should’ve gotten me years at Blackgate Penitentiary in Gotham Bay and several more at Arkham.
“And speaking of Mr. Wayne…” Bryn leads the conversation with an unexpected segue. “I want our wedding colors to be black, dark blue, and golden yellow.”
There’s no resisting the urge to cock my head in question.
“Dark Knight colors for my dark knight.”
It’s impossible to resist letting my shoulders sink in awe.
My body from drifting closer to hers.
Blushing.
“However,” impishness remains in her voice, “this does mean I may opt in for wearing one of Catwoman’s many leather costumes instead of the more traditional dress.” Her bright crystal gaze glides over to latch onto my brown and blue. “Or maybe I’ll just save that for our honeymoon.”
The low, hungry groans the image sparks are difficult to swallow. “What do you think about taking the boat down to South Haven Island for that?”
“You have a Batboat?!”
“Batman has a Batboat, Batstrike, or Batsub – depending on the Batverse you’re in – while Mr. Wayne has a yacht.”
“Which is what I’m assuming you have.”
“Correct.” My unoccupied hand casually slips into my pocket. “What do you say to us getting married here on the sand, enjoying the wedding suite at the hotel that night, leaving by brunch, and sailing down to a private beach where you can swim naked for a week or two as I happily watch?” I don’t bother fighting the crooked grin. “Any interest?”
“All of the interest,” she coos in return, her own smirk stretching the length of her face, “even though it’s clearly your counter to flying anywhere tropical.”
Anywhere at all, actually.
That’s not changing.
And that’s non-negotiable.
Rather than reply to her remark, I pull out my now buzzing device to see an important text.
“That time already?” Bryn cautiously inquires after seeing who it’s from.
“Yes.” Typing a response precedes tucking my cell back out of sight. “Sawyer says he’s finishing up lunch now and to meet him poolside in about ten minutes.” Our eyes lock once more. “Would you like to walk me to my session, Miss Kyle?”
A warm squeeze of her hand is attached to an even warmer cooing, “I’d love to, Mr. Wayne.”
Pivoting in the sand to head the direction of the hotel where my psychiatrist is dining and our wedding planner is booking us a date effortlessly occurs in tandem with a subject change. “Hamilton recommended an increase in folic acid in both of our diets – you for the vital role it plays in pregnancy development, me for depression – which has led Lucky to taste testing new recipes on his fellow estate members. Apparently, tonight, our family meal will include cheddar roasted broccoli and Brussel sprouts.”
“Is Puppet Boy coming?”
