Page 173 of Handsome Devil
With the same smooth finesse with which he sipped his drink, Tate tossed the glass off the balcony of the beach restaurant, unblinking. “Done.”
“Same goes for cold meats.” I didn’t know why I was giving him hell. Perhaps because my stomach was way too bloated for eight weeks of pregnancy.
“Yes, Apricity.”
“And I want a bigNotting Hillbench in our garden.”
Tate grinned, bringing a glass of water to his mouth. “Got no idea what the fuck that is, but consider it done.”
“You should really be more assertive with me.” I raised an eyebrow. “Our child will walk all over you if you give them everything they want.”
“It’s one law for Blackthorn Junior and another one for you.” He put the glass down. “No one can wrestle these many concessions out of me.”
“You might feel differently when they arrive.”
He shook his head. “I’ll love them more than I do myself. But nothing and no one will ever compare to how I treat you. I worship at your altar.”
His phone beeped, and I knew who it was before Tate had the chance to glance at it.
“Dr. Patel reminding you that you have a therapy session in fifteen minutes, huh?” I smiled.
Tate’s psychiatrist worked closely with the therapist Tate spoke to twice a week to ensure he was making progress. And he was. He now solved mathematical problems for fun, maybe once a week, and sometimes he forgot to do them altogether. He stopped writing on walls and furniture. He stopped tap-tap-tapping his numbers whenever he felt anxious. He still followed some OCD routines, but they were mild and didn’t interrupt his daily life.
He still checked that all the lights were off before we left the house. Only stepped through doors and into elevators with his right leg. Read theFinancial Timesin a peculiar order that was not chronological and made sense only to him.
“The man is relentless.” Tate shook his head, standing up and giving me an apologetic grimace. “You’d think he’d get the hint when I told him I was married, yet there he is, blowing up my DMs like a fangirl.” Tate offered me his hand to help me to my feet from across our table.
Smiling indulgently, I shook my head. “The weather is lovely. I think I’ll stay here a bit more.”
He stiffened for a moment, and I knew what he was thinking. Even though the past six months had been blissfully eventless in the Ferrante and Callaghan department, Tate was still reluctant to let me out of his sight. He had PTSD. So did I, I supposed. But it only made me fight my fears even more.
“You know…” Tate trailed off. “I can always skip today’s session. I’ve been doing it twice a week for seven months now. Nothi—”
“Respectfully, love, I’d like some time alone.” I arched a pointed brow.
He looked ready to argue—in love or not, arguing was my husband’s favorite cardio right after having sex—but he inclined his head, reminding me he was one phone call away.
“Bill’s been taken care of. So has the tip.” He leaned to place a hot kiss on my lips, whispering, “But I haven’t touched dessert, so if you could open those legs for me when you get back, I’d much appreciate it.”
Now that I was alone, I took the mocktail and brought it to my lips, closing my eyes. I couldn’t wait to feel the baby growing and kicking inside me. Couldn’t wait to raise them in England, far away from the mayhem and insanity.
My eyes trailed the pearly white sand. Brightly colored houses in turquoise and pink and green sprouted along the shore, with arched balconies and red roofs. The waves gently teased the smooth sand, and I hugged my arms, relishing my tranquility. My eyes trailed the edge of the shore, where I spotted a young family enjoying the last rays of sunshine. The couple was sitting in their swimwear by the water, toes curled in the sand, deep in conversation. Next to them was a girl, maybe five or six years old, with dark skin and a mermaid metallic swimming costume in purples, silvers, and pinks. She was holding a bucket in her hand, picking up a seashell, squinting at it, then tossing it back in the sand. I smiled privately.A perfectionist.
Something about her reminded me of myself, and an acute desire to help her overcame me. I stood up, my legs carrying me to her. She was tossing another seashell back to the ocean with a heavy sigh when I reached her.
“Hi,” I said.
She looked up, her face a mask of confusion. “Um, hi?”
“Are you looking for a particular seashell?” I asked.
Her parents stopped talking and looked over at us, probably to make sure I wasn’t trying to kidnap their daughter.
“Yes.” She nodded briskly. “TheScaphella junoniashell.” She had an American accent and a bossy, no-bullshit attitude I adored. I was right. Shedidremind me of myself. “It’s so rare that they can be worth thousands of dollars, but on this beach, people have found them. I asked my mommy and daddy to come here.” The words rushed out of her mouth. “For my birthday. Because I wanted it. But now I don’t think I’ll find it. They only wash up in powerful storms. It’s our last night here, and I’ve been looking every day, and, well…” She trailed off, shoulders slumping, her gaze dropping to her sand-covered toes.
“Is it something like this?” I thrust my wrist in her direction, exhibiting the studded bracelet Tate had given me.
“Yes!” The girl’s face opened, brightening at once. “Exactly like this one! Wow. So cool. Where’d you find it?” Her fingers twitched, struggling not to reach for it.
