I kissed him. Holding his strong jaw cupped in my hands, I kissed him, pouring every emotion, every ounce of love and awe and wonder into that kiss.
“I love you, Ash. We met, we married, we fell in love. We did everything backward. But that’s us, that’s our story. And now you’re leaving, but you’ll be coming back. Because that’s our story, as well. I’ll never have the things other people take for granted, my health, children, certainty . . .”
Ash shook his head. “Whatever happens, we’ll have each other always, and we have our love. That makes us as rich as kings.”
“Why do you stay with me when I can’t give you that? I can’t give you children?”
He stared at me, his eyes serious.
“Because I love you. Because I don’t want to dance alone.”
He’d left the apartment after delivering a searing kiss that heated me from tip to toe, with a promise of more.
I met my mom and sisters for cocktails at a bar that was stumbling distance to the theater, even in the fierce freeze that clawed the city.
A decent crowd gathered at the theater, and I was hoping that Ash was wrong about it being a disaster. He was probably just being too hard on himself.
Unwrapping my coat, scarf, hat and gloves, I settled into my seat—really good ones in the third row—between Mom and Bernice. Dad had planned to come but pulled a sudden shift, or so he said. But I was glad it was just a small part of my family.
I drummed my fingers restlessly until Mom took my hand in hers and gave my fingers a reassuring squeeze.
“Thank you for coming, Mom,” I whispered.
“I wouldn’t have missed it,” she smiled.
I wondered how Ash was feeling backstage, waiting in the wings. And I sent up a quick prayer that it would go well.
When the lights dimmed and the pre-recorded music started, my hopes were high. I felt a rush of adrenaline, and I realized that was just a faint reflection of how Ash would be feeling. But despite everything, it was exciting—I was going to see my husband on stage, performing for the first time since Las Vegas. It had to be special.
I was squirming with anticipation and nerves as the dancers ran and leapt onto the stage, but drop by drop, my happiness drained away.
I didn’t want to believe it, but Ash was right. Broadway Revisited was awful. It was a trite mishmash with no coherent theme or storyline. I felt bad for the cast—they’d all worked so hard. The director and producer still seemed to believe that they’d pulled off the show of the century, but they were the only ones. The reviews were going to be brutal.
Muted applause greeted the dancers as they took their bows. There was no encore request, and the half full theater emptied quickly. We were supposed to go for drinks ‘to celebrate’. I wasn’t sure anyone would feel like it.
“Ash was good though,” Bernice said kindly. “And that blonde girl he danced with.”
“That’s Sarah,” I sighed. “She’s really nice.”
“Yeah, they look good together .They should have let them do more than that one tango. That was hot.”
Yes, that was my husband—a man who looked hot when he was dancing. Or standing, or sitting. And very hot laying in my bed.
A warm glow of possession made me smile. Bernice caught my expression and raised her eyebrows in amusement. I didn’t care.
We headed out to the nearest pub, but it was twenty minutes before I saw Ash making his way toward us, freshly showered, his fake tan orange under the unsympathetic lighting.
A hot blast of jealousy shot through me when I saw that he had his arm around Sarah, his head down, talking to her. But it dissipated quickly when I saw that she’d been crying, her pretty blue eyes bloodshot and puffy.
I moved across the booth to make room for her and she plopped down next to me.
Ash gave me a thin smile, nodded at my family while Sarah got acquainted with them, then headed to the bar, soon returning with a bottle Hennessy’s whiskey and six shot glasses.
We clinked them together and downed them in one.
“God, I needed that,” muttered Sarah. “I swear, Laney, if it wasn’t for your fella, I’d have gone off the deep end long ago. He’s always so friggin’ calm. I don’t know how he does it.”
Neither did I. My enduring opinion of Ash was that he was a hothead. It was intriguing hearing this about him, and another flutter of jealousy stung me.
We stayed for a few drinks and some of the other dancers joined us, but no one was in the mood to party and we left soon after.
It was a relief to tumble into our apartment and regain feeling in my fingers and toes. Ash was flexing his right hand and wincing. The fingers that had been broken often ached, but it was worse in the cold.
I was going to suggest making some hot chocolate, but Ash surprised me by pulling me into his arms and kissing me hungrily. He tasted of whiskey and cigarettes, but I was too turned on to take issue with that right now.
He shoved both hands into my jeans and squeezed my ass.