Reality returns slowly, like stars appearing in a newly dark sky.
For a moment I have to wonder if I have melted, but it is only the limbless feeling that comes with a release born of pure pleasure.
Damien pulls out, and I mourn the loss of our connection, at least until he lies beside me, our arms and legs a tangle, our faces close. “Thank you,” I murmur.
“For what?
“For distracting me. From my nightmare.”
He laughs. “I didn’t realize I was that transparent.”
“Only to me. Like you said, we know each other.”
He kisses the tip of my nose. “You have nothing to be nervous about.”
I nod, but the truth is that he is wrong. I realize it now. I want this wedding to be a reflection to the world. An outward manifestation of what he and I are together. Beauty and grace and something special and unique. I want it for him. For us. And for the whole damn world.
And so yes, I am nervous.
“I want the wedding to be perfect,” I confess.
“It will be,” he assures me. “How can it be anything else? Because no matter what happens, the wedding will end with you being my wife. And that, my darling Nikki, is the only thing that matters.”
I brush a kiss over his lips, because he’s right. I mean, I know that he’s right.
But I also know that he’s forgetting about the cake and the dress and the band and the photographer and the tents and the tables and the champagne and on and on and on.
Men, I think, and then snuggle close, reluctantly acknowledging that for tonight, at least, he’s distracted me.
For tonight, I care only about this man who will soon be my husband—and who already is my life.
Chapter Three
I awake to an empty bed and the smell of frying bacon. I roll over to find my phone on the bedside table, then glance at the time. Not yet six.
I groan and fall back among the pillows, but I don’t really want to go back to sleep. What I want is Damien.
I slide out of bed, then grab the tank top and yoga pants I’d left draped across a nearby armchair. I head barefoot out of the bedroom and move the short distance down the hall to the third-floor kitchen.
We’re in Damien’s Malibu house, and the wall of windows that faces the ocean is wide open, the glass panels having been thrust aside to let in the breeze. The smell of the ocean mingles with the scent of breakfast and I breathe deep, realizing that I am content. Whatever demons had poked at me during the night, Damien effectively banished them.
I glance toward the windows and out at the darkened Pacific. Waves glow white in the fading moonlight as they break upon the shore. There is beauty there, and part of me wants to walk to the balcony and stare out at the roiling, frothing water. But the siren call of the ocean is nothing compared to my desire to see Damien, and so I turn away from the windows and head straight to the kitchen. It is larger than the one in the condo I used to share with my best friend, Jamie, and it is not even the primary kitchen for this house. That is on the first floor, and could easily service a one-hundred-table restaurant. But this—the “small” kitchen—was installed as an adjunct to the open area that serves as a venue for entertaining, and since it is just down the hall from our bedroom, Damien and I have gotten into the habit of cooking our meals and eating in this cozier, more informal area. Usually we’re joined by Lady Meow-Meow, the fluffy white cat I took custody of when Jamie moved out. I know Lady M misses Jamie, but she’s also enjoying having the run of this huge house, and Gregory—the valet, butler, and all around house-running guy—spoils her rotten.