Page 42 of Kiss From A Rose

Rose had looked at me helplessly, hoping I'd say something, do something to defend her, but I didn't. I had my ways to get Rose back in my good graces whenever I screwed up, but I didn't have those same tactics with Abigail Rutherford. Instead, I said something noncommittal like, "Mama, let the girl settle down a little," or some such condescending claptrap.

I was scared of having a wife. I wasveryscared of having thewrongwife. Before we even announced our engagement a part of me wondered if it would be such a bad thing if Rose miscarried. Accidents happened all the time, didn’t they? I hated that I'd ever thought that because I loved my children. Jude and Willow had made me a better person and enriched my life in ways I'd never been able to fathom as a twenty-one-year-old frightened kid.

But Rose had been even younger and out of her element. I had support: my parents, friends, brother. She had no one. Just her friend Malou, who my mother told her she couldn't see in public or even invite to her own wedding.

Malou was African American and would stick out like a sore thumb, my mother told Rose, and there would be too many questions about her and Rose's background if she came to the wedding.

Rose had begged me to convince my mother. She didn't want to get married without the one person in the world who was her family. I told her to take it up with Mama. Malou didn't come to the wedding. Malou seldom visited, and even though I'd met her, I didn't know her. She didn't stay at our house the few times she came to Atlanta but at a hotel. Usually, Rose went to see her first in Savannah and then on Angel Island, alone.

Rose had had one person in the world who was hers and my family and I had wanted her to break that tie. It spoke of Rose's resilience that she kept her friendship alive no thanks to any of us.

"Gray, for what it's worth, I think you'll save your marriage," Justin assured me. "You just have to look at your wife and you together to know she loves you."

Yeah, I knew she loved me. I'd always known that. It was why I treated her the way I did, wasn't it? It was why I took her for granted, thinking, where would she go? Hadn't I thrown that stupid prenuptial agreement at her time and again in the early years when we had a fight?

"If you hate it so much, Rose May, leave. Just remember, you get nothing if you walk out on me, not even our kids."

I used to call her Rose May when I was angry with her as a way to remind her of where she came from. I hadn't done that in years. Why was that? I knew without exerting too much mental strength. It was because she didn't argue with me anymore. If I said something, she either gently tried to change my mind or just went along with it. We didn't fight.At all. It was something my friends envied about my marriage.

"My wife's on a fucking rampage. I'm tired of the constant nagging," Tim Snyder said while some of us met for drinks as he threw dollars on the table. "I got to go, or she'll have my balls."

I looked at my watch. "So soon?"

"Not all of us are married to Saint Rose," he remarked.

I looked at the others in confusion. "What's that about?"

Alex Matthews chuckled. "You have the nicest wife. I mean, do you guys ever fight?"

"Nice or doormat?" Chuck Grainger, who was a little drunk, said.

"Rose is not a doormat," I protested, even though he wasn't the first person to say that. Bonnie and Holden said it often enough.

"Maybe doormat is the wrong word," Chuck slurred. "But man, I wish my wife didn't want to bust my chops all day, every fucking day. That's all."

"It's because she doesn't come from our circles," I explained.

"Right. Or maybe it's because of your prenup," Chuck mused.

I hated that everyone knew about it, but that was something Bonnie had made sure of. I didn't like to talk about it and didn't.

"Or maybe I just make my wife happy," I snapped.

Alex snorted.

"What?"

"Gray, I think you're happy in your marriage. I'm not sure about Rose. You just have to look at her."

"What nonsense. I know my wife and my marriage," I gritted out and changed the topic.

Christ! Every time I went down memory lane, I felt worse because I came face-to-face with my callousness and blind disregard for Rose and her feelings.

Had I ever made her happy?

I remembered one night a few years ago, before the kids left for university, we'd made love.

I was still breathing hard, her taste still luxurious in my mouth, my dick wet from her when she'd stretched languorously and asked, "Gray, do I make you happy?"

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