Page 47 of New Storm Rising
There was a moment of silence. Then…
“Perhaps I shall use a different phrasing next time.”
My grin widened in triumph. Yay! Marital disputes—Ambrose: 0, Lilly: 1.
“You know,” I pointed out while I was already on a winning streak, “a honeymoon is just the right time for a loving husband to make his wife breakfast in bed.”
My loving husband shot me a look that could give an iceberg the chills. “Do not push your luck.”
I nodded obediently. “I prefer to pull it anyway.”
He gave me another one of those looks—then, rising to his feet, started dressing and made his way out of the room. Five minutes later, I heard the sizzling of a pan from the room next door, and delicious smells floated into the bedroom. Grinning, I stretched and snuggled back into bed. Being married was great! Incredibly grea—
“Bluuurgh!”
Well, maybe not quite so great.
By the time I came up for air again, Mr Rikkard Ambrose was standing in the doorway, a steaming tray in his elegant hands.
“Breakfast is ready.”
“Oh great,” I groaned, clutching my stomach. “Just great.”
I dove towards the bucket again. Over the splashing of liquid, I heard the sound of footsteps approaching. The bed beside me dipped, and, once again, Mr Ambrose was holding back my hair, steadying me.
“S-sorry,” I mumbled.
Gently stroking a thumb across my cheek, Mr Ambrose tightened his grip around my shoulders. “Mrs Ambrose…I’m going to give you a piece of advice that has served me well in my life.”
“Which is?”
“Don’t. Ever. Apologize.”
“Ah.” I nodded wisely. “So that’s why you’re such an arse most of the time.”
“Wife?”
“Yes?”
“You should perhaps remember who is holding your head up above a bucket of vomit.”
“Good point.”
It took a while for my stomach to stop rebelling. Mr Ambrose held me all the way through it, and a long while after that. Finally, when my mouth once again tasted moderately normal, I found a tray in front of me, gazing down at the breakfast he’d prepared.
“It’s gone cold,” he stated, coolly.
“Don’t worry.” A smile tugged at the corner of my mouth. Reaching out, I caressed my favourite iceberg. “I happen to like cold things.”
“Indeed?”
“Oh yes, indeed, Sir.”
Taking a spoon in hand, Mr Ambrose fished for some scrambled egg and held it in front of my mouth.
“Open up.”
I felt a tug in my chest. And not the kind caused by vomit coming up my throat. “Feeding your wife, husband? How romantic.”
