He takes me into his arm, pulling me close against him, as I laugh and laugh. Honestly, I’ve never heard this song sound better. “Is this your way of saying we’re going to have to find a way to compromise on a lot of things?” I ask.
“Nah. Here’s a secret. You keep giving me that cute little pout of yours, and hell, you’ll win every time.” He kisses my forehead sweetly. “I love you like crazy, Katydid. In my mind, losing to you ain’t nothing but winning.”
The rest of the night is amazing. Even in a church basement, I’m on cloud nine. After midnight, he carries me over the threshold to the apartment, but instead of having a romantic night, we spend most of the time pulling 500 bobby-pins out of my hair. Once that’s done, I say, “do you want to see my wedding lingerie?”
He’s lying on the bed, head propped up on one elbow, chewing on one of those plastic stirrers and just watching me, like I’m the most precious thing in his life. The five o’clock shadow is back, his hair is rumpled, and he has his tie and jacket off and his shirt undone.
Damn, he’s my husband? Yes, yes he is. I am really that lucky.
“Is that a trick question?” he asks.
I grin. I get this naughty idea half in my head about doing a sexy strip tease, but then I realize that just like I couldn’t get into my dress without the help of my mom and Aunt Linda, I can’t get out of my dress without help, either. It’s all laces and buttons in back. I turn to him. “Could you . . . free me?”
He nods. Very carefully, he starts working the buttons on the dress. I feel it loosen little by little until finally it gives way. I breathe a sigh of relief and turn around. Okay, Sexy Strip Tease, Take Two. I start to lower the dress, then suck my lower lip into my mouth. I have no idea how to be sexy. So I just let the thing fall, revealing my corset, g-string, and garter.
He watches all this intently, then breathes, “I have the sexiest wife,” a look of complete awe on his face.
He thinks I’m sexy. Somehow, he thinks I’m sexy, even standing here, feeling foolish, having absolutely no idea what I’m supposed to do.
He hooks a finger toward me, beckoning me forward.
I look at the monstrosity of a dress, puddled around my knees, and say, “Um. Hold on.” I kick off my heels, then climb out from the mess of white silk, crawling catlike onto the bed. “Free!” I sigh. “I’m free!”
“Not for long.” He grabs my wrists with one of his hands and vises them over my head, then rolls on top of me, smiling smugly. “Why, hello, there, Mrs. Harding.”
I grin. “Hello, there, Mr. Harding. You’re looking especially well tonight.”
“Thank you for being my wife.”
“Thank you for being my husband,” I reply.
“Did you have fun tonight, my wife?”
I laugh. He clearly just likes saying that phrase. My wife. I understand, because I get the same giddy feeling every time I think that Dax is my husband. “Best time ever,” I gush. “In fact, tired as I am, I’m not ready for it to end, are you?”
He shakes his head, running a finger down the lace of my corset, letting it linger lazily on the top of my breast. “Nah, baby, I’d say it’s just beginning.”
Chapter 18
“Yes, Mr. Farley, if you get your Ferrari to us by tomorrow, he should be able to take a look at it by the weekend and let you know what the problem is,” I say from behind the reception desk at the office of the brand new Harding Automotive Works.
I hang up the phone and type Farley’s information on the schedule for Wednesday, leaving not so much as one empty spot on the calendar, from morning to night for Dax. That’s practically heaven for him, damn workaholic. Luckily, we have the apartment, and usually I can coax him into taking extended lunch breaks.
It’s crazy busy for a snowy Tuesday in January, making me long for those warm ocean breezes at Myrtle Beach, the site of our honeymoon. I pull my sweater tighter on my shoulders and peer into the busy waiting room, checking to make sure it’s relatively straightened and that there’s still coffee in the pot out there. Then I crane my neck to see through the adjacent window, where Dax is just finishing up with the Beamer’s brakes. He looks up at me, and I wave at him frantically, those butterflies alighting in my chest.
Finally. I’ve been feeling neglected.
He comes through the door, chewing on an apple, and says, “How goes it?”
“Farley’s Ferrari, tomorrow,” I say, pointing out his schedule. “Transmission problem.”
He nods and rests his backside against the reception desk. “Cool. Is that all?”
I shake my head. I’ve been trying to wrestle him away from work all day, but it’s been one fire after another. “Can you take a break?”
He raises an eyebrow, because he knows what our breaks mean. Then he frowns. “Shit babe, I’d love to. But I’ve been backed up all day with Tom out sick.”