Page 80 of Anyone But You
“Thank you for recognizing one of my many talents,” I said, retrieving her towel and quickly wrapping it around her body. I didn’t need the temptation. “Just in case you’ve forgotten, your closet is there,” I said, pointing toward the his and hers closet. “Your bed clothing is in the second drawer of the island. They might be a little ill-fitting, but I’m sure you’ll find something that will work. Please stop by the cellar and select a bottle of wine before joining me in the kitchen.”
She smiled genuinely as her feet hit the bathmat.
“You know you should see a therapist about buying all this shit for me when I wasn’t even checking for you,” she said, referring to my obsession with her. I snorted.
“I’m not crazy, my dear. I’m psychic.”
25
Waiting to Exhale
Victoria
My feet padded down the spiral staircase that led to the wine cellar. I was immediately hit with various scents, notably berry, citrus, alcohol, and wood. Knox’s wine cellar, along with the rest of the mansion, was insane. Hundreds of bottles tucked into wooden slots spanned the basement.
He boasted that all the wine was imported straight from Italy and proceeded to tell me about the best regions for wine, the types of grapes grown, and the ideal time to harvest. His spiel was a little long-winded for my taste, but I nodded, smiled, and responded positively as a supportive wife would.
Oh, word?
That’s wild.
It gets him every time.
I randomly selected a bottle of Pinot Grigio and climbed the steps to the main level. Upon arriving, I paused to soak it allin again. Knox’s home was perfect. It was a Tudor revival on nearly 1.5 acres that blended impeccably with old-world charm and modern amenities. It was more than spacious, with nine bedrooms, seven baths, an informal and formal living room, a dining room, an entertainment room, and a movie theater. The chef’s kitchen was nothing I’d ever seen before. It showcased two top-of-the-line ovens, a six-burner gas range, a wine refrigerator, a commercial-sized stainless-steel refrigerator, an incredible 14-foot preparation island, and a dine-in nook overlooking a well-maintained garden. Our primary en suite bedroom had not one but two of the home’s eight fireplaces, generous double walk-in closets, dual vanities, a glass-enclosed rainfall shower, and a decadent soaking tub that I wanted to live in.
The grounds were beautifully landscaped, which included a shimmering 48-foot pool with a beach entrance, a hot tub, and a full cabana bath. There was also an extensively covered outdoor kitchen, a gas fire pit, a private meditation garden, and a full basketball court.
Knox needs to hurry up and heal so I can break his ankles. He’ll go from a cane to a walker real quick!
Lastly, the two-bedroom guest house for my mother was perfection.
Having my mom just steps away made everything feel lighter. I didn’t have to worry if she was okay or if the staff at the facility was paying attention. She was receiving the best care from nurses who actually knew her name and what she needed. I could check on her anytime, sit with her, talk to her—even if she didn’t remember who I was.
Knox didn’t just move her here. He made sure she was safe, comfortable, and treated with dignity. That kind of effort said everything.
You can’t convince me this man doesn’t love me.
Knox glanced up briefly from the dough he kneaded at the kitchen island.
“I wasn’t aware that my dress shirts were on your side of the closet,” he commented before returning his attention to the pizza dough.
This man has a lot of nerve. I’m not going to let it slide.
“Oh, my God. I love wearing your dress shirt so much. It’s so big and comfortable. I can let my lady bits breathe!” I exclaimed, reminding him of how he described the feeling of wearing my caftan. He smirked, rolling the dough into a ball before depositing it into a glass bowl. He placed a moist towel over the bowl before accepting the wine from me and sliding it into the cooler.
“I never knew you were such a spiteful woman.”
“Spiteful, or am I just giving you a taste of your own medicine?”
He ignored my statement and reached for the bottle of wine. “Good choice. It’ll pair nicely with the Margherita pizza.”
“I’m shocked we’re not having meat lovers pizza or something,” I said, sliding onto a stool.
“As much as I bitch and moan about wanting a steak, I would rather not spend the next two days on the toilet.”
“Amen,” I mumbled. “Also, don’t forget we have to do your wound care tonight.”
“Wedon’t have to do anything. I can do it myself,” he protested.
