Chapter Ten
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Maple
“Well.” I clear my throat in an attempt to rid myself of the lingering coolness of relief and the sharp electricity of my nerves.
Neither sensation gets the memo, and I’m left with an uncomfortable mix of lightning beneath frigid skin.
“Obviously I would like to start where it most makes sense to start.”
“Obviously,” Iverson agrees good-naturedly. His eyes squint to a Maple-is-so-cute narrowness I have previously enjoyed the effects of. Right now, however, I’m finding his affections less endearing than usual for some reason. Or some many reasons, perhaps. “And that obvious start would be?” he asks.
I search for an answer as my body wages the battle Ivy started with his logic and his agreeableness and his freaking handsome face.
I’m on edge, assaulted by the unexpected advances he’s making and the emotions they evoke.
He’s spun me like a top, and I keep spinning, and spinning, and spinning, hoping that when I fall it’s somewhere safe.
Movement beyond Iverson’s head catches my attention, and I look to the lobby desk to see Etta miming impatiently at me. Her hand lifts to her mouth, elbow out to the side, and she bites at the space where an invisible fork lies.
Ohhh. Not a bad idea. So not a bad idea that couples everywhere consider it the default choice for a date, and it’s a little embarrassing that I didn’t think of it myself.
I remind myself that Iverson’s cheekbones were at play, and as such I have nothing to be embarrassed about. I can’t be expected to think straight when he’s whipping them around like that.
“Dinner,” I say finally, warily eyeing the cheekbones in question.
Despite the danger they still pose, my shoulders ease, pressure oozing off of them now that the setting for our date has been chosen, and I can lob the responsibility of wooing back at him.
“We should go to dinner.” I nod, a decisive tilt of my head that drapes dark hair over my face.
I puff, blowing it away from my eyes. Super shockingly, the blow-it-away-and-hope-for-the-best method doesn’t work, and it falls right back into my line of sight to obstruct my vision. I sigh and tuck it behind my ears.
Ivy’s eyes snag on and trace the sway of a lock I miss. “Dinner?” he asks in a murmur.
“Dinner,” I confirm. “That’s what people do when they date, right? That’s what you’re suggesting?”
Displeased, he abandons his study of my hair.
His strong, straight nose crinkles. “No, I’ve suggested a courtship.
Very different. Dating is casual. What I want to have with you doesn’t resemble casualty in any way.
I don’t want to date my friend in the hopes that she maybe might possibly decide to love me enough to resume the relationship we had a week ago.
I wish to enter into a courtship with my wife as a means to make our new marriage bloom with love, respect, and joy. ”
I stare, wide-eyed, at my husband. “Oh.”
His brows draw together. “Was that not clear?”
“Not really,” I reply weakly. Not really, not at all.
“Is it now?”
One could certainly say that it is now, yes. “Ivy… are you in love with me?” I know he’s said as much, but… this plan of his is giving in love, not the la-de-da-de-da-I’m-in-loooove energy I’ve been attributing to him and his actions. This plan is serious.
His head tips in confusion. “Yes,” he says slowly. “I am in love with you. Was that not clear?”
I wheeze. “Not… really.” Not entirely. Not in the way that he apparently is.
“You think I marry women I’m not in love with?” he asks, brows furrowed.
I mean, okay, one could say that marrying a person is very much in love behavior. However, the way he did it kind of marred whatever emotional weight he might have been giving the event. I didn’t think he actually loved me, loved me.
“Seriously, we have got to work on your compliance with societal norms.” My voice could hardly count as more than a whisper, stunted as it is by my sudden inability to breathe. “Particularly the bits relating to clear declarations of love.”
He hums. “You can teach me all of the norms you’d like me to follow at dinner,” he suggests. He flips the laptop back to him and starts typing. “Dinner… When would you like to have it?”
Uh. “Tomorrow?” I hesitate. “Are you sure you’re in love with me?” I ask, just to check. In case maybe he misspoke or something… somehow.
“Completely sure.” He types a few more words, then stands abruptly. Before I can so much as blink, he’s on my side of the table, right in my space.
I lean back, eyes seriously wide. I’m no stranger to a lack of personal space with Ivy, especially more recently when he ramped up his physical closeness as our wedding drew nearer. This proximity is different, though. This proximity is heated.
It seems my husband has decided to be abundantly clear about where his affections for me lie in the face of my confusion.
“Would you like me to pick you up, rosy Maple?” he asks, warm breath fanning my already burning cheeks.
“Would you like me to plan the dinner itself? The meal? The place? The time? Or do you want those decisions for yourself?” He lifts a finger to the loose strand of my hair and wraps it around the digit.
“How long is my leash, wife? Will it strangle me, or will my love give me some slack?”
I think that if he continues to look at me like this, with barely contained fire in his emerald depths, I might just give him more slack than either of us could handle.
My fingers twitch, begging for a pencil and a sketchbook.
My heart may be unsure how to handle this version of Ivy, but my artistic impulses aren’t.
He needs to be captured in lead and ink.
He needs to live on a page as a study in determination and passion.
I’d put him down in shades of black and gray next to similar sketches of him lounging, or posing, or grinning.
No.
I’d start a new book, and I’d beg him for this expression until every page was filled with it. Then I could start a second, and a third, and on forever because there’s no way the potency of such heat could ever be exhausted.
“You can plan the dinner,” I offer while I work to memorize the lines of his intensity, ignoring the fluttering of my heart as I scrutinize every attractive inch. “That’s okay with me.”
“My Maple,” he practically croons. “So generous. My leash has lots of slack.” His passion turns hungry. “I’m sure I won’t take advantage of that at all.”
He closes the inches between us and kisses my blazing cheek, catching the corner of my mouth with his lips.
My. Goodness.
My lashes flutter in equal parts confusion and shock. “Did you just kiss me?”
“No,” he replies. “I can, though. It will be just like our wedding kiss. Would you like that?”
His lowered eyelids indicate that he would like that very much.
I shake my head with haste. “That’s okay,” I say.
“I’m all good.” Our wedding kiss is what I like to refer to as persona non grata.
I have been willfully pretending it didn’t happen, and I would very much like to continue doing so.
I have to process the wedding before I can process the kiss, and we most certainly will not be adding any more kisses for me to process in the meantime. I’m at my limit. I’m past my limit.
“A shame,” he mutters. His eyes lock on my lips, dark and longing.
I stand, forcing him to get out of my personal space. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” I tell him. “I have to go now.”
He backs up immediately, pressing his mouth together in amusement. “Of course,” he agrees. “Tomorrow, when your husband, who is deeply, maddeningly, infallibly in love with you, will pick you up for a date, where he will show you just how deeply, maddeningly, infallibly in love with you he is.”
If tomorrow is anything like the last two minutes, then I’m not sure I’ll survive it.
Still, I agreed to this scheme. Actions, meet consequences.
“Right. That.” My face, already warm, burns.
Iverson grins.
I shake my head, bid him a quick goodbye, and make my escape.
Tomorrow, I will deal with… that.
Today, I will go up to my suite and have a major girlie pop freak out, because Iverson Swallow is in love with me. Iverson Swallow, love of my life, is in love with me.
I press my hands to my cheeks and find a smile in the plumpness there.
If this is war, I hate to say it, but…
I think I’m losing.