Page 47 of Captive Mafia Wife

“Sweaters,” he says. But he doesn’t meet my eye. And his voice is low, pained, almost.

I put down the red silk hairband I was examining, giving him my full attention. I place a hand on his shoulder and ask, “Would you like one?”

He clears his throat. “It’s silly.”

“What? Tell me.”

“I always wanted…matching.”

“Matching sweaters?” This is NOT a conversation I ever thought I would have with this man.

He nods. “Like those magazines. With the families. The husband and wife. In the sweaters.”

My heart almost bursts out of my chest. Fredrick Frisque, devoid of childhood love, wants to wear matching holiday sweaters with me?

“Let’s do it!” I pick up the navy sweater with green-and-gold plaid stripes he’s eyeing. “This one?”

He glances at the hairband I was holding a moment ago. “That won’t match your hairband, though.” He picks up a red, green, and white plaid sweater instead. “Would you like this better?”

“It is more festive.” I pull the red bow tie bell cat collar from my bag. “And we will match with Happy.”

He stares at me a long time before finally saying, “K.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, composing himself. I look away, giving him a moment to himself.

Who’d have thought matching sweaters would bring a man to tears?

“Should we get silly sweaters for the staff as well?” I point to the ugly Christmas sweater section, which features Father Christmas squeezing his way down a chimney, a tackily decorated tree, and a gingerbread man who might be on acid.

“Yes, we should. I’d love to see Enrique don a reindeer sweater.” He picks one of the red cashmeres in each of our sizes, cradling them in his arms. “But not this style. These are only for us.”

I pluck up the red hairband, following him with the excitement of the puppy we’re not allowed to have, to the tacky Christmas sweater table.

After shopping, we’re invited to the Christmas tree-filled solarium, where I’m almost blinded by the bling hanging from their scented branches. We dine on tomato soup with fresh croutons and sandwiches. For dessert, he orders himself sparkling water; I’m spoiled with a spiked frozen hot chocolate.

It arrives with whipped cream. And sprinkles. “This is the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted.”

“I disagree.” He reaches over to swipe whipped cream from the tip of my nose. He slides his finger between his lips, tasting. “You had something superior in your mouth last night.”

I choke on a mouthful of cream and sprinkles. “Fredrick! We’re at HARRODS, for goodness’ sake. Even a wild islander like me knows you don’t bring up,” I whisper,“blowjobs.”

We spend the rest of the day touring the small warehouse behind the store where commercial decorators can order. At first, the saleswoman looks at me like, “you need commercial décor?”

Then I pop off with, “I have an ENTIRE castle to decorate. And it is December One. I’m behind.”

Hearing that, she’s suddenly my best friend.

As we peruse the offerings of the warehouse, the saleswoman—“call me Missy”— flutters her lashes, trying to tempt attention from Fredrick, who she’s rudely assumed OWNS Wee Inverness, saying, “And for you, Mr. Frisque? What style of Christmas do you enjoy?”

Luckily for Fredrick, he knows where his whipped cream is whisked, and he redirects his attention to me. “Madame willbe choosing everything. Please, have your staff make sure it’s to her liking.”

Och! If he wasn’t growing on me before tonight…

“Thanks, honey,” I joke, slipping my arm around his waist, fluttering my own mascara-kissed lashes at Miss Missy.

Smooth as always, he slides an arm around my shoulders, kissing my cheek. “Of course, ma chérie. Anything to see you smile.” The way he says it makes me feel that any woman fluttering her lashes at him would not get his attention.

My wee heart pitter-patters.

We finish our rounds and place our order. Fredrick pays. We go home. Well, back to his place to wait for the deliveries to begin.

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