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“What?” Mara’s eyebrows shoot upward.
I explain everything. The office. What I’d been daydreaming about—in a low voice, but enough detail to make her blush and check our surroundings to make sure nobody could overhear. We reach the maître d’ stand then, and I pause long enough to give him our name and watch the man’s expression shift from surprise to eagerness. He leads us through the restaurant, to a little back room I reserved for a private chef’s tasting.
After more than enough pampering to drive us both crazy, asking every ten seconds if either of us need anything else from him, the man finally leaves us in peace. It’s only once we’re alone again that I resume the story.
I tell her about Bianca walking in on me, and her flirtation. Then I add how I rejected her, and what she said afterward.
All the while, Mara toys with her menu with one hand, frowning, her eyes on the table and her thoughts apparently a million miles away. Finally, unable to stand the tension, or the guilt that’s sitting like a rock in my stomach right now, I shift in my chair, leaning closer to Mara.
“Did I lead her on? I swear, I haven’t flirted with her, or said anything to make her think we’ve been anything but colleagues this whole time… But maybe I was giving off signals unconsciously, maybe I said something in the wrong tone—”
“You’re being too hard on yourself,” Mara cuts in. “I’ve seen the two of you together. You never did anything wrong, John, trust me. I’d have called you on it way before now if you had.” A touch of a smile ghosts across her face.
I grimace in response. “But that reaction of hers… Saying I should learn what it’s like to have my life ruined?” I scowl.
“An overreaction, definitely.” Mara sighs. “She was probably hurt, embarrassed, angry you didn’t fancy her the way she fancied you…” Mara shakes her head. “Crushes make people do stupid things.”
“Believe me, that much I know.” I manage a smirk.
Mara rolls her eyes and kicks me under the table. Then her expression shifts into a sly smile. “I’m flattered you thought of me so quickly, though.”
“Even if it was to over react and freak out that you were in some kind of danger?” I point out, eyes narrowing.
She laughs. “Of course. It’s kind of sexy how protective you are.”
“You have no idea, wife.” I reach down under the table, my hand tracing along her thigh. She’s wearing jeans again, like she normally does, but that’s never stopped me before. My hand inches higher, and her lips part a little as her eyes dart around the restaurant. Or at least, the small back room where we’re seated.
“John…”
“I asked for this room for a reason,” I reply, my smile widening. “Privacy is key, when you’re a big-name celebrity like me.”
She smirks, rolling her eyes. “Oh God, the ego has finally gone to your head.”
“What can I say? I’m used to getting what I want, when I want it.” I lean toward her, my lips catching her temple, then sliding down her cheek. “And what I want right now, Mara, is my sexy wife.”
She shivers and tilts toward me, her body shifting against mine. “You sure about that? You don’t want to flirt with anybody else?” She says it lightly, like a joke, but it makes that rock of guilt shift in me again, and I pull back, just far enough so that I can see her face, my eyes locked on hers.
“Mara, I would never flirt with anyone else.”
She laughs. “Relax, John. I know that.”
“Still.” I frown. “I feel like I wronged you somehow. Just, that whole interaction…”
She shakes her head. “Don’t think about it.” She leans in to kiss me, then, her lips soft and sweet against mine. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” She reaches up to cup my cheek, her hands soft against my stubble. “You’re a good man, John Walloway. And an even better husband.”
I smile and turn to kiss the open palm of her hand. My gaze drifts down for a second, to the ring she’s wearing again, now that the shallow cut on her ring finger has finally healed. We got it resized a little, so that it fits properly, not too tightly or in a way that might injure her again.
I have to admit, it looks beautiful on her. But even better is the knowledge of what it means. Of how it marks her as mine. My wife. I don’t plan on ever letting her go.
“I love you, Mara,” I whisper, feeling every word of that.
Her eyes go wide, fixed as they are on mine. I can see her pupils dilate, watch the way her breath catches in her chest as she takes in the full meaning of that.
