“Kiss me,” I whisper.
His expression softens. He crosses the room and cups my face in his hands, tilting my head to exactly the right angle before lowering his lips to mine. I close my eyes and sink into the feel and taste of my husband, the warmth of his body burning away the lingering cold. I press my hand to his face and part my lips beneath his.
And there is us again, the familiar, lovely way that we fit together, the slide of his tongue across mine, the delicious way he kisses my lower lip. I feel him as part of me, his heart beating in time with mine, the center of his soul enclosing everything we have ever been to each other and all that we will ever be.
I move my hand to the back of his neck, drawing him into me, knowing, knowing that we are the same, that the differences and difficulties we’ve had will never have the power to destroy the very essence of us.
Dean lifts his head, resting his palm against the side of my neck.
“The semester after I first met you…” He brushes his thumb across my lips, then moves away from me. “After I knew I wanted to be with you, wanted to know everything about you… I taught a course on medieval cosmology.”
“I remember.” I swipe my damp eyes with my sleeve.
I cling to a memory of Dean stretched out on the old sofa in the university apartment he’d lived in during that first year. Jeans and a T-shirt, his standard attire on those long weekends when we’d hole up together to work, study, play, make love. He was reading a book about medieval philosophy, his reading glasses a sexy professorial contrast to his wavy, overlong hair and whiskered jaw.
I was sitting across from him, writing up a report on digital preservation. I thought we were both immersed in our studying, but when I snuck a glance at Dean from across the coffee table, I found him watching me with an intent gaze that sparked heat through my entire body.
Without a word, we both pushed our papers and books aside. He held out his arms. Smiling, I got to my feet and then fell against him as our mouths pressed together hot and deep.
Bliss followed. Pure and raw.
“You… you were teaching something about the constellations, I think.” I curl my hand around the back of a chair. “And celestial astronomy…”
“Music of the spheres.” Dean unwraps the loop of string again and twists it around his fingers. “That was part of the curriculum. It was based on Pythagoras’s discovery that a length of string produces the certain pitch of a musical note. The medieval concept is that the planets and stars are set on concentric spheres that rotate around the earth and are arranged in harmonic ratios. Each sphere produces a musical tone, and the revolution of the spheres together creates a kind of mystical symphony.”
“It’s a beautiful idea.”
“You know I’m not much of a romantic.” He looks at me. “But that semester, even I had to admit it was more than just a coincidence.”
“What was?”
“The fact that I was studying the perfect harmony of the stars and planets at the exact same time I was falling in love with you.”
I can only stare at him. I can’t even speak.
Until this moment, I didn’t know it was possible to love my husband even more than I have for the past five years. I didn’t know this kind of love existed, the kind that can both make you whole and shatter you to pieces.
Dean twists the string between his fingers a few more times. Then he pulls his hands apart and shows me the pattern stretched between his palms.
A heart.
I smile through my tears. For a long time, we just look at each other. A thousand emotions thread the air. Rather than sorrow, my soul fills with love and tenderness. With hope. With strength. Fortune favors the brave.
“You became my world the minute I saw you, Olivia Rose.” He breaks our gaze first and drops the string onto the foyer table. “You know that, don’t you?”
“Yes. And it’s why I know you’ll do this for us.”
I move toward him. He meets me halfway. We stop a foot away from each other. He holds up his left hand. I put my palm against his. Our wedding bands make a familiar, soft click before I slide my hand over so we can weave our fingers together.
“I’ll be here, Dean, love of my life.” I tighten my hand around his. “I’ll be waiting for you.”
The first time I brought Dean to meet Aunt Stella, it was spring. Wisconsin bloomed with dandelions, green leaves, tulips. Even the town of Castleford seemed brighter, more colorful, although now I suspect that my perception had less to do with the season and more to do with Dean’s presence.
Aunt Stella and Henry lived in a little, two-story house that was a polar opposite from the West family’s beautiful villa. My aunt was a sour-faced woman who gave me a brief embrace and looked Dean over with a critical eye. Henry, thin and wiry, shook Dean’s hand and then disappeared into his garage workshop.