I grin happily, like a child. “I enjoy looking at pretty things.”
He turns now, and his eyes rake over me, starting at my toes. “So do I,” he says when his gaze reaches my face, and there is so much heat in his voice that my legs go weak and my body quivers with want. His mouth curves into a slow, sexy smile, and I am absolutely certain in that moment that I am going to melt. “You spoiled my surprise,” he says, then nods toward the breakfast table where a tray sits with a glass bud vase displaying a single, red rose. “Breakfast in bed.”
“How about we share breakfast at the table?” I move to him, then stand behind him with my arms around his waist. I gently kiss his shoulder and breathe in the clean, soapy scent. “Early meeting?” Damien is hardly a slacker, but he usually doesn’t go into his office until after nine. Instead, he works from home, then showers after a brief workout before heading downtown. Today, apparently, we’re operating on a compressed timeline.
“Not early,” he says. “But also not here. I’ve got a meeting in Palm Springs. The helicopter’s coming in twenty.”
“I’ve got an appointment in Switzerland,” I counter airily as I step back so he can finish putting our breakfast together. “The jet’s coming in an hour.”
His mouth twitches with amusement. The omelette is already on a plate, and now he adds the bacon. I follow him to the table, pour us both orange juice and coffee, then sit across from him. Putting a napkin in my lap, I realize I’m smiling like an idiot. And the best part? Damien’s smile matches mine.
“I love this,” I say. “Breakfast together. Domesticity. It feels nice.”
He sips his coffee, his eyes never leaving my face, and for a moment there is nothing between us but contentment. Then he tilts his head, and I see the question rising in his eyes. I should have expected it. Damien wouldn’t leave for a meeting without being absolutely certain that I am okay. “No more shadows this morning?” he asks.
“No,” I say truthfully. “I feel good.” I take a bite of the omelette we’re sharing, and sag a bit in my chair in ecstasy. I’m a lucky girl in so many ways, not the least of which being that my fiancé can cook. “How could I not with you taking such good care of me?”
As I hoped, my words bring a smile to his lips. But worry still lingers in his eyes, and I reach across the table to squeeze his hand. “Really,” I say firmly. “I’m fine. It’s like I told you—I want this wedding to be perfect, which is ironic considering that I’ve spent my whole life trying to escape from my mother’s plan to mold me into Perfectly Plastic Nikki.” I immediately regret mentioning my mother. After years of playing the good and dutiful daughter, I’ve finally come to terms with the fact that my mother is a raging bitch—one who also happens to despise my boyfriend. She made my childhood miserable, and while I am fully prepared to accept the responsibility for my cutting, there’s not a shrink in the world who wouldn’t agree that the causative threads of that particular vice lead back to Elizabeth Fairchild and her various quirks and neuroses.
“You’re not your mother,” Damien says firmly. “And there isn’t a bride in the world who doesn’t want her wedding to be everything she’s dreamed of.”
“And the groom?” I ask.
“The groom will be happy if the bride is. And so long as she says ‘I do.’ And when he can call her Mrs. Damien Stark. And once we get to the honeymoon.”
I’m laughing by the time he finishes. “Thank you.”
“For putting up with your wedding jitters?”
“For everything.”
He stands and refills my coffee before clearing the table. “Is there anything you need my help with today?”
“Nope.”