Page 176 of Meet Me In The Dark
I lean closer, so the next words are only for her. “Meet me in the dark, Celeste. Every time. That’s where I’ll be.”
Her lashes lower, and the pull of sleep wins.
I press my lips to her forehead. “I’ve got you.”
And I keep my hand exactly where it is.
Fifty-Nine
I sit in the armchair of our lodge bedroom, one hand scrubbing over my jaw, the other drumming impatiently against the armrest. The fire crackles low in the corner, throwing light across the wood-paneled walls, but my eyes keep darting toward the bathroom door.
Ten minutes.
She’s been in there ten fucking minutes.
“Celeste,” I growl, loud enough for my voice to carry through the door. “I’m getting impatient.”
I hear her laugh. “That’s all part of it.”
Christ.
“You’ve got thirty seconds to get out here,” I warn, “or I’m coming in to get you. I want to see my wife. Preferably on my lap.”
“Just one more minute,” she calls back.
I groan, scrubbing harder at my jaw.
“Patience, Mr. Blackwood,” she sing-songs.
Patience is not something I have when it comes to her. Especially not tonight. The opening of the newheadquarters is next month, and I know life is about to get fucking insane again. Tonight is ours. Every minute between now and sunrise is mine, and I’m not wasting them waiting outside a locked door while she primps.
My gaze drops to the floor.
Her wedding dress lies in a pool of white fabric at the edge of the bed, and the sight of it sends me spiraling back.
It wasn’t a gown for show. No glittering beads, no dramatic train designed for a cathedral aisle. Just soft fabric that caught the mountain air as she walked toward me, the hem brushing over wild grass as the sun dipped low and turned the sky molten.
For a man who spent most of his life looking over his shoulder, waiting for the past to catch up, I’ll never forget the moment I turned and saw her walking toward me.
Not my past.
My future.
And what a fucking future she is.
It hadn’t started like this.
After I put a ring on her finger, Celeste drove herself half insane trying to plan a wedding.
Every night it was something new: the color of napkins, the order of the vows, whether it should be a harpist, a string quartet, or if we should just say fuck it and hire a DJ.
I told her I didn’t give a shit who sat where or what shade of white the flowers were. I told her I’d pay someone to handle it. But no, she insisted on doing it herself.
Even when I helped, she ended up redoing it. She wanted it done her way, which meant no help from a wedding planner, or her friends, or her future husband.
My wife is a bigger control freak than I am.
One night, I walked into the kitchen to find her hunched over the table with seating charts spread out like war maps. She had Post-its in her hair. Her laptop balanced on one elbow. Half a glass of wine sat untouched at her side.
