23. Sully #2
I help Sloane into the carriage, if it could be called such a thing, then climb in and squeeze myself next to her.
The foot of space between the bench and the front of the carriage means my feet barely fit, and my knees are wedged just below my chin.
But with a long breath out, I force away the irritation gathering in my chest and tuck Sloane into my side.
“This is cozy.” I smile, though it feels more like a grimace.
Sloane rolls her lips, just like T.J. did an hour ago, and hums.
The man starts to pedal, standing up and using all his body weight to get the cart moving, and we move through the street.
As we turn the block onto the avenue, he spins back to us. I want to tell him to watch the damn road, but I don’t want Sloane to glare, so I keep my mouth shut.
“Normally,” he says, “we play music, but my sound system is on the fritz.” He gives us a small shrug .
That figures.
“The good news is I love to sing.” Before I can assure him we’re fine listening to the sounds of the city, he breaks into the ballad “Fools Rush In.”
Bloody hell. When he hits the melody, I can’t help but wince. So much for the perfect night.
I turn to apologize to my wife, only to find her pressing her lips together with enough force to make them go white. Her eyes are dancing and her cheeks are pink as she works hard to fight a laugh.
“It sounds like Dammit this morning when Brian went down to the office without him.” Her giggle washes away the anger clawing up my throat, making me laugh instead. She’s right.
“Not sure I can take this for much longer,” I say as the guy hits another high note.
Sloane leans into me, burying her face in my chest and falling into a true fit of laughter. “God, I missed having fun with you,” she admits once she’s collected herself.
I pull her tighter to me because, damn, I miss us too.
“Remember karaoke nights during law school? You used to love listening to all the people getting up there to sing, especially the bad ones,” she teases me.
That’s not all I remember about karaoke, but I nod, because the other memory will cause me to pitch a boner right now, and I’m not sure any of my extremities can move in this cramped space.
“I don’t think Brian ever recovered from your impersonation of Britney Spears,” I tease her.
“He’s such a baby,” she says with a roll of her eyes, likely remembering how she tried to drag him up on stage and when he wouldn’t join, she brought the mic over to the table, sat on my lap, and serenaded him. To this day, Brian shudders at the mention of karaoke.
She gives me a wistful smile. “I’d love to do that again.”
Fucking hell, I’d give anything to give her a night full of bad music and laughs. The need to make that happen for her is as strong as the need to hold her .
“We did get him up on stage that one time, though,” she points out.
Above us, a raindrop hits the top of the car with a tink . It’s followed by another, then a third, but I ignore it, focusing on my wife.
“Only because he was bloody pissed.”
She smirks. “Drunk, Sully. You’ve spent more than twenty years in the US. We say drunk.”
I chuckle. The woman has always given me shite, and I wouldn’t want it any other way.
The patter of the rain on the roof gets a little steadier, but even as the legs of my trousers get wet, I don’t mind.
“Fine,” I say. “He was drunk . And so were you, after seven J?ger bombs.”
She shakes her head. “It was redheaded sluts.”
“Bloody lies.” I scoff.
“No way. I hate J?ger bombs, so you let me pick.” She flashes me a smile that instantly convinces me that she’s right.
Come to think of it, that’s probably how she got me to toss back those rank shots she chose that night.
“So,” she goes on, “we drank redheaded sluts.”
“Maybe.” I kiss her forehead, knowing she’s one hundred percent right. I know well enough that if she had wanted the drink, I would have let her order without protest. I’d give her anything, back then and now.
As we turn into Central Park, the rain turns from a steady drizzle to a mighty pounding. My legs are soaked, and since we continue to move forward, the rain now hits my chest and shoulders.
Beside me, Sloane shivers, so I pull her in closer.
When the man on the bike finishes his fourth song, he stops and turns around. “I know you paid for the full park tour, but are you sure you want me to continue on, sir?”
I glance at my wife, at her damp hair and her wobbling bottom lip. Though she’s being a good sport, she’s soaked and no doubt miserable .
“Take us to the restaurant.” My heart sinks as I make the decision. So much for my perfect night.
“Sully.” Sloane burrows closer, her teeth chattering.
I’m a fucking plonker. What was I thinking, bringing her out like this?
“We can’t go anywhere like this,” she says. “Let’s just go home.”
Fucking fuck. She’s right.
Tamping down my frustration, I calmly tell the man to head back to our penthouse. As we ride in silence, her words hit me, and my mood lifts. She wants to go home. Our home. Not her place. Home.
By the time he pulls to a stop in front of our building, the rain is coming down so hard, I can barely make out his words when he tells us to have a good night.
I rush to open the door for Sloane, but she’s already beyond soaked. Her hair clings to the side of her face as water runs down her cheeks, and her entire body trembles.
“Go on up. Take a warm shower. I’ll find us something to eat,” I promise.
Though I expect my independent, sassy wife to protest, to swear she wants to help, she goes without a fight.
I dart back out into the rain, headed for the Quick Mart across the street.
For a few minutes, I wander, unsure of what to pick up.
But when my eyes land on the yellow and white package, an idea strikes.
When Sloane was pregnant with T.J., she craved BLTs constantly.
So with any luck, the simple meal will be a hit.
I’m standing at the stove in my sweats, almost finished with the bacon, when she comes out of the bedroom.
“I’ve missed this view,” she calls over the soft music I turned on.
I glance over my shoulder, and my heart lifts a little. She’s dressed in yoga pants and a tank top, looking flushed and warm. Turning back, I flick on the burner for her teakettle.
“Me or bacon?” I ask with a smirk, head turned so I can see her.
“Definitely the bacon.” She’s teasing and I bloody love it. When she steps up behind me, wrapping her arms around my bare torso, and presses her lips to my back, my heart skips. The moment is almost too good.
I swear I’m floating a foot off the ground as I pull the last two pieces of bacon off the pan and set them on the paper towel with the rest. Then, ensuring the burner is off, I spin and pull her into my arms.
The music changes to “Someone Like You” by Van Morrison, the tune instantly bringing memories to mind, and I sway with her in my arms. I swear the sigh that leaves her lips comes straight from her soul.
I brush my lips against the top of her head. It’s been years since we danced in the kitchen. I can’t for the life of me remember why I didn’t pull her into my arms more often. But I know without a doubt that from this day forward, I’ll make a point to do it more often.
“It’s bubbling,” she mumbles.
My brows furrow. “A bubbly dance?” I whisper, remembering Madame E’s prediction.
Sloane laughs, having absolutely no idea what I’m talking about and her breath teases my bare skin, causing goose bumps to erupt. “No, the water. Give it a second, and it’ll whistle.”
“Oh.” I release her, holding her forearms to ensure she’s steady. “Go get comfy on the sofa. I’ll bring your tea and sandwich.”
I shut off the teakettle just as it lets out a whistle and pour the boiling water into her mug. While the tea steeps, I add the bacon to the sandwiches I prepped with mayo, lettuce, and tomato.
It takes two trips, and when I sit beside her on the couch, she’s picking up her BLT.
“Mmm.” She moans at her first bite. “This might be the best thing I’ve eaten in days.”
I shake my head, cringing. “Clearly I’ve starved you tonight.”
“Not at all. I just forgot how good your BLTs are. They were my favorite when I was pregnant with T.J.”
“I remember.” I take a bite of my own sandwich.
For the next few minutes, we sit side by side, eating in silence. It’s not awkward, and there’s no tension in the air. It’s the best kind of quiet.
“Tonight was the best,” Sloane says as she sets her empty plate on the table in front of us.
I scoff. “You mean a mess.”
She shakes her head, wiping her mouth with her napkin.
“No. I mean everything went wrong, but we got to be together, laughing and snuggling.” Her eyes sparkle with a hint of emotion that hits me straight in the chest. “That’s all I ever want.
I don’t need fancy. I don’t need perfect.
” Her eyes glitter with emotion. “I just need time with you.”
“Me too.” As I study her, I make a silent promise. She’ll never want for my attention again. Every day, I will carve out time for us.
I slide a little closer on the cushion and bring my mouth to hers.
Her lips are warm and soft, her presence alone creating a haze around me, one where only the two of us exist. I cup her cheek and angle her head slightly up, seeking permission with my tongue.
When she lets me in, I close my eyes and worship her mouth, owning every inch of it.
The need to lay her back and dominate her body is all-encompassing.
Somehow, I resist the urge, instead slowing the kiss, then pecking her lips one last time.
If I get her naked, I’ll never want to leave this flat, and as tempting as it is, that’s not how tonight is going to play out.
“How about we get cleaned up and head home?”
She pulls back, her brows rising in surprise.
“As much as I’d love to crawl into bed here, I promised T.J. I’d be home tonight and that we’d go for donuts again tomorrow,” I explain. “So I’d love to get you home and into our bed there.”
My wife smiles at me. “I’d love that too.”