2. CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 2
Gray
I royally fucked up.
I missed a twentieth fucking wedding anniversary. That was bad.
Very bad!
Damn it, Aimee was supposed to remind me of such things. I'd have to tell her that. But she helped me so much with my work, which was invaluable, that it seemed petty to bring such mundane nonsense. This was my personal life, not work, which was what she was hired to do, and she did that damn well.
I texted the kids on our group chat—the one Rose wasn't on: Did you congratulate your mom on our wedding anniversary?
Jude: Was that today?
Willow: No. Did you forget, Dad?
Did no one but Rose remember our anniversary?
Once, when I'd missed yet another anniversary, I'd covered up my embarrassment by telling her that people with bad marriages needed to remember and celebrate such occasions, not us, not us with the great marriage. I made up for it with something from Van Cleef & Arpels. I guess I could do the same this time.
Me: Yeah. Your mom was waiting, and I had that Austen construction crisis.
Jude: Mom will be fine. She knows you're busy.
Willow: Did she sound upset when you came home?
Me: No.
The kids agreed that then it was alright. If she were upset, she'd say something. But I knew she wouldn't. She'd never say anything. She'd be agreeable, as she'd always been since we first met. Or maybe she was okay with it. We had a good marriage. Sure, the past few months had been hectic with new contracts the company received that took me out of Atlanta, but that happened in every marriage. She didn’t work, I did, and that’s how we paid for our lives.
Willow: You know she loves her baubles. Buy her something .
I froze when I read that message. The dismissive way in which Willow said that Rose liked baubles . She liked them fine but didn't chase jewelry like some other woman. She never bought herself anything. All the jewelry she had was from my mother or me. But I couldn't blame Willow. I'd thought the exact same thing.
I left the study and went to our bedroom.
I loved our home.
Rose had made it cozy, unlike the mausoleum I'd grown up in, where you just couldn't get comfortable. Here, everything was designed to generate warmth and give you a sense of home . I'd resisted letting her decorate in the beginning, so used to having an interior designer put together something that would look good on the society pages—but Rose had begged . She'd pleaded that I let her take care of our house.
"Put her on a strict budget so she doesn't go crazy," my mother had admonished me when I told her we wouldn't be using my mother's favorite interior designer for our new place, "Once she realizes she can't do it, ask her to call me."
I had put Rose on a budget. I'd thought it was ridiculously tight, one that she wouldn't be able to do much with, but Rose had been over the moon.
"Thanks for trusting me with so much money, Gray. I won't let you down."
She hadn't.
Oh, my mother complained about the low-class way in which Rose decorated the house, but I liked it, and I'd asked her to butt out. She may have continued to give Rose a hard time about it, but eventually, I knew Mama would find something else to latch on to.
I opened the bedroom door and saw my wife on our big bed, sleeping on her side, huddled as she always was, facing my side of the bed. When we were younger, she'd stay up until I came to bed.
"I like falling asleep here," she'd say, laying her head on my shoulder, her arms around me.
How long had it been since we'd gone to bed at the same time?
I sat down on the bed and saw her face in the dim moonlight filtering through a gap in the drapes. I traced a cheek with a finger. Her skin was soft and dewy like it had always been. She was still as beautiful as she'd been all those years ago when I'd fallen for her. She shifted in her sleep, and the comforter slid down. I could see her breasts nestled under her sleep shirt. I was hard in an instant. Twenty years, and she could make me want her just like that. If I woke her, she'd come to me, let me make love to her. She'd never, ever said no.
Never? Yes, never.
I couldn't relate to friends whose wives had headaches and used sex as a bargaining chip in their marriage. Not Rose. She was sweet and sensual.
She'd whisper, " I love you, my darling Gray ," when I thrust into her because it aroused me immensely when she vowed she was mine, told me I was hers, that she loved me.
I wish I could get into bed with her now, but I had to prepare for a meeting with the city planners, and, as it was, I'd be lucky to get a few hours of sleep.
I brushed my lips against her forehead, and she breathed, "Hmm, love you, honey."
Damn it! She'd say that, even in her sleep, when I'd forgotten our twentieth wedding anniversary. She was happy to spill her heart to me, and give me everything I needed or wanted. When was the last time I'd told her I loved her? All the time. I said it all the time, right? After a phone call or…of course, I did. We were a huggy-kissy family that said I love you to each other. I said it to my kids.
I grew up in a conservative home, but Rose had taught all of us to hug, kiss, and say we love each other. In the beginning, I'd protested, "If we say it all the time, it loses value."
"No, my darling Gray, it becomes more and bigger. I promise."
She'd been right.
Fuck! I'd forgotten yet another anniversary. I had to make up for this. No matter what Willow thought about Rose and jewelry, I knew better. I'd plan a trip right after I finished some of these deals.
We were supposed to go away around this Thanksgiving last week, but I'd had to cancel due to work, and Rose had made the best of it as she always did. We had Thanksgiving Dinner at my brother's place. I knew she and Bonnie, my brother Holden's wife, didn't get along—actually, Bonnie didn't like Rose—but my wife never complained about my family. At least not after the first couple of years of marriage, when she began to get along with my mother.
I smiled, thinking about the holidays. The kids would be home for Christmas in a few weeks, and Rose would do what she always did: turn our home into a cozy haven filled with festive smells and tastes. She loved this time of year and made it special for all of us.
We could go to St. Moritz, I thought as I walked to my study. We could stay at that hotel I'd designed. That would give me a chance to check in with the client and have a holiday with Rose. She wouldn't mind if I snuck in a few meetings while she hung out at the spa or the beach.
Yeah, that's what I'd do, I decided—and typed an email to Aimee to give me some dates around my schedule that could work.