Page 73 of Captive Mafia Wife

“Aye, and I’m grateful we could shield her from her father’s death and aid in reuniting her with her family.” She wipes away a stray tear. “I know it’s right, but it still hurts.”

I say, “Le temps guérit toutes les blessures.”

“Meaning?” She smiles.

“Time heals all wounds.” I wrap my arms tighter around her, returning her head to my chest. I stroke her hair, kissing the top of her head. “It will take time.”

“Aye. I know. It helps that Leah has such a sweet spirit. I can’t imagine missing the first year and a half of your baby’s life.”

“Now, her baby is safe in her arms.”

“And I made it all day without crying in front of the baby! The last thing I wanted to do was confuse her more.”

Now, glassy tears brighten her green gaze, threatening to fall. I want nothing more than to brighten Freya’s mood. What can I distract her with? “Let’s do something to relax.” I name the things she loves. “Wine. Movies. Joyeux.”

“Hmm.” She pulls back, staring up at me. Her nose crinkles. “No wine. Don’t want to get more emotional.”

“Ice cream?” I offer. “I could make milkshakes. I have no idea how to do so, but I’m confident I can figure it out.”

Her eyes light with mischief. “Now you’ve got your plough in the ground! Great idea.”

“Plough in the ground?” I give her a curious look. “Island saying?”

“Oui!” she confirms. “No one is around this late. They can’t stop us from using the kitchen. Let’s do it.”

We give one another a conspiratorial fist bump.

We change into our matching black silk button-down pajamas. I prefer sleeping in boxers, but happy wife, happy life. She pulls her long hair into the high ponytail I find so sexy, her face bareand clean.

On tiptoe, we sneak off to the kitchen from which we’ve both been banned.

I stand at the kitchen counter, watching her move gracefully as she pours creamy milk into the blender. I add a generous scoop of rich vanilla ice cream, tasting the cold sweetness on the tip of my finger.Feeling mischievous, I swipe more cream from the carton lid, smearing it over her lips. She playfully kisses me, smearing the ice cream over my cheek in retaliation.

A bowl of freshly washed strawberries is on the counter, tempting me. I grab a handful of berries and drop them into the blender, hoping their sweet flavor mixes with other ingredients.

“Och!” Playfully, she elbows me, adding another scoop of ice cream to the blender. “We agreed on vanilla! Not strawberry.”

“Think it’s ready?” I ask.

“Let’s see!”

Our arms touch as we lean over the blender to see if our milkshake is ready to be blended. A loud noise suddenly jolts me. Freya pushed the button before I secured the lid.

In a split second, creamy white liquid and chunks of fruit fly out of the blender in a chaotic explosion, splattering all over our faces, hair, and clothes, and covering the walls and ceiling.

We both freeze, staring in shock at the mess. Morven’s perfect kitchen is destroyed.

“My God, I’m glad Morven’s not here right now.”

“And just when she was starting to think we might be more than just pretty faces.” Laughing, Freya wipes milk from her face. “This is a disaster, not to mention the pasta night failure?—”

“Of which we do not speak,” I remind her, thinking of the globs of linguini we burned to the bottom of Morven’s favorite pan.

“Exactly why we are NOT allowed in the kitchen, husband.”

She’s so sexy, so utterly sensual, standing there, covered in cream and berries, her long ponytail swishing as she moves toward the towel drawer. “How in the Green Hills of Scotland will we clean up this mess?”

“First,” I say, “let’s get those messy clothes off you.”

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