‘You can be whoever you want to be,’ I whisper, moving forward, needing to be closer to him.
Inconceivable peace reflects back at me when we’re looking at each other again. ‘I want to be your husband.’ He speaks softly and quietly. ‘Marry me, Olivia Taylor. I beg you.’ His demand steals my breath. ‘Please don’t make me repeat myself, sweet girl.’
‘But—’
‘I’m not finished.’ His finger meets my lips to hush me. ‘I want you to be mine in every way possible, including in the eyes of God.’
‘But you’re not a religious man,’ I remind him stupidly.
‘If he accepts you as mine, then I’ll be whatever he wants me to be. Marry me.’
I crumble with happiness and throw myself into his arms, feeling overwhelmed by the intensity of my feelings for my perfect gentleman.
He catches me. Holds me tightly. Injects an incredible amount of certainty into me.
‘As you wish,’ I whisper.
I feel him smile into my neck and constrict me in his grip. ‘I’m using my intuition here,’ he says quietly, ‘and I’m going to suggest that you mean yes.’
‘Correct,’ I whisper, smiling into his neck.
‘Good. Now get me out of this fucking lift.’
Epilogue
Six years later
It’s off by at least five millimetres.
And it’s bugging the God-loving hell out of me. My damn hands are twitching and my drumming fingers are speeding up by the second.
It’s fine. It’s fine. It’s fine.
‘It’s not fucking fine,’ I bark to myself, diving forward and poking my laptop to the left. I know the sense of released pressure is unreasonable, really, I do, but I just can’t figure out why I should leave it so horribly out of place when a split second of my time can put it where it should be. I frown to myself and settle back in my chair, feeling a whole lot better. Therapy is clearly working a treat.
A soft rapping pulls my attention away from my perfectly placed laptop and to my office door. That delicious wave of happiness mixed with a ton of other emotions sails through me like lightning, the fireworks beginning to explode beneath my skin at her known closeness.
My sweet girl. She’s here.
I grin and arm myself with my remote control, pressing the button that’ll prompt my screens to appear. They take forever, but I don’t worry about her walking in, even though she knows the code. She’ll wait for me. Like she always does.
The screens kick in and I sigh when she appears on the main centred television, her beautiful petite body dressed in black capri trousers and a crisp white shirt tucked in neatly, her hair cascading all over her shoulders. If I was that way inclined, I’d kick my feet up on my desk, recline in my chair, and just sit here for the rest of the day watching her. But I’m not up for littering my desk with my feet, and no amount of therapy will solve that. So I rest my head against the back of the chair, tapping the remote control on the arm and smiling when my stare drops to her cute feet. Today’s colour: coral, and although it kind of takes the edge off the elegant formal style of her work outfit, it doesn’t matter. Never has, never will. My girl must have fifty pairs, and I know more will be added. By me. I just can’t help it. Every time I see a new colour, I find myself in the store and walking out with another pair, sometimes two, or, on the odd occasion, three. Her face each time I present her with a new hue is beyond the realms of pleasure. In fact, I think I’ve become mildly obsessed by hunting down every colour on the Converse spectrum. I frown to myself. Mildly? OK, so I search Google every now and then, and maybe reserve a day here and there especially for Converse hunting. That doesn’t make me obsessive. Enthusiastic, maybe. Yes, enthusiastic. I’ll go with that, and I don’t care what my therapist says.
On a silly little agreeable nod of my head, I resume my concentration of the screen, brushing at my forehead when a stray hair tickles my skin. I sigh, rapt by the sheer perfection that is my wife, the side of my index finger rubbing back and forth across my top lip as I think of all the worshipping time I’ve reserved for tonight. And tomorrow night. And the next night. I smile to myself, wondering what planet I must have been on all those years ago. I knew one night would never be enough. And I know for sure that she knew it, too.
I’m waiting for it.
It’s coming.
Any . . . moment . . . now.
‘Here we go.’ I grin to myself, looking on as she gazes up at the camera and drops her weight casually onto her hip. She’s had enough. But I haven’t. So I stay exactly where I am, denying her. ‘In a minute, sweet girl,’ I muse. ‘Give me what I want.’