Page 46 of Better Daddy
“I feel awful abandoning you,” he says, “but if we want to get the Lexan hearing date moved up, I need to go use my masculine wiles on Judge Wilcox’s law clerk.” He waggles his brows. “But I have a feeling I’m leaving you in good hands.” He tips his head my way. “I told Sully to take my seat.”
Hmm, dammit. That’s actually the kind of help I could use. Now I owe the kid.
He smirks like he can read my thoughts, then wanders down the cobblestone street.
I splay a hand over the small of my wife’s back and steer her toward the ballroom. “Come on. Let’s get you off your feet.”
“How about we get a drink and sit out here?” She nods at a bench along the fake street.
Even better. I’d never say no to time alone with my wife.
I leave her on a bench while I fetch her a drink, and when I return, I slide in next to her, a smile on my face. “So, you and Little Caesar?”
Sloane’s eyes widen and her mouth falls open on a laugh. “Oh my god. You can’t call him that.”
I grin. “Why not? He’s younger than us both.”
She rolls her eyes and sips from her straw.
I nudge her. “He was your date?”
She shrugs, and then with her lip caught between her teeth, her hesitant blue eyes find mine. “Who’d you think I would come with?”
I hold her gaze, waiting her out, because she knows bloody well who I thought she came with.
Those cheeks of hers go pink and she drops her eyes. “I was just afraid to tell you that I wanted to come with you.”
Her statement takes me out at the knees, and I’m sitting on my damn arse already. Bloody hell, the woman was nervous? My pulse quickens. On the one hand, she’s just told me she wanted me to be her date. That should leave me ecstatic. But I’m gutted knowing how much I’ve failed her. Knowing that my wife doesn’t have a clue howcrazy I am for her. That she would be afraid to tell me anything is a problem. But to be afraid to tell me she wants to spend time with me? That she wants my attention? That won’t bloody do.
“Sweetheart.” My voice is firm. I want her to hear these next words. I wait for her to raise her eyes so she’s looking at me. I won’t grab her chin and force it. I won’t even squeeze her hand to get her attention. I don’t deserve to touch her until she understands precisely how wrong I was for ever making her feel that she not only deserves my attention, but that I want to give it to her. That I ache to give her every bit of me.
When she finally lifts those blue eyes, there’s hesitation there—there’s bloody longing—and fucking hope. I won’t let her down again.
“I know I have failed you, again and again, and I can’t fix this all overnight. But if you believe only one thing I ever tell you, believe this: there is not a moment when I would rather be anywhere other than by your side. So if you ever want a date or a friend or even an escort to the bathroom, let it be me. Know that I want it to be me.Always.”
Sloane’s blue eyes turn iridescent as they fill with tears, but she gives me a quick nod and swipes them away quickly. My heart is in my throat as I try to figure out the right thing to do next. Do I touch her? Comfort here? Bring her into my chest and stroke her back until she knows with certainty that I want to be nowhere in this world but by her side?
Before I can decide, three carolers step up in front of us, and one pulls out a harmonica, blowing loudly. Then they break into “Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas.”
My wife’s posture straightens, and she catches my eye, smiling. She loves Christmas. She always has. And because of that, I do too.
My life before Sloane was gray. I don’t say that to be dramatic. It’s the simple truth. She brought a brightness to everything. My favorite thing by far, though, has always been the way she communicates with me through her eyes. If she findssomething funny, she searches me out to see if I’m smiling too. If she’s pissed off, she looks to me for assurance that she isn’t being overdramatic. If she’s happy, like right now, she looks to me, not because my presence is vital to her happiness, but because she wants me to experience the joy as well.
My wife has been a giver throughout our entire marriage. Hell, our entire relationship. And I’m only now realizing it.
I grin right back at her and then slide an arm around her shoulders, swaying to the song that brings her such joy. When the carolers finish their tune, they turn to leave, and I call after them. “One more?”
Sloane settles against me even further at the request, and the singers brighten as they launch into “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year.”
We garner a bit of a crowd with this one, and requests are shouted, one after another. As the minutes tick on, Sloane remains pinned to my side. The next hour flies by, and before I know it, Sloane is yawning and the crowd is dispersing.
“It’s probably time to head back to the penthouse,” she says. “Otherwise, I’m at risk of falling asleep on this bench.”
Surprised, I blink at her. Did my wife just ask me to come back to our bed? “Sloane, I?—”
Her eyes widen. “No, I wasn’t—” She shakes her head. “I wasn’t inviting you back with me. I was just saying I should get to bed. I know we’re?—”
I stop her there. “I’d love nothing more than to come back to our bed, sweetheart. And one day, when you’re ready, I will.”
