41. Lavender
“So. Much. Butt. Stuff!”
From behind me, Raif’s laughter sounds so smutty. “Was that an invitation?”
“It was not!” I complain—and laugh. “Stop touching my bum,” I insist as I try to shimmy along the kitchen counter. Instead, his arms wrap around my waist, and he pulls my bum into the cradle of his thighs. “What is it with you getting handsy when my hands are busy?” Leaning forward, I drop the bag of flour to the countertop, where a white cloud billows up. I cough, fanning it away, and shiver as Raif presses his lips to my neck.
“Just an opportunist, I guess. But you know, when I have my hands on your ass, what I really like your hands full of is…”
“Yours,” I say, tuning in his arms for a little mutual butt-grab.
He makes a growly kind of groan, moving his hips against mine. My husband is big into physical touch. Compliments, too. I’ve learned to know when he”s about to tell me I’m pretty because his eyes turn a little more catlike, and his mouth hooks up at one side. As though he’s having very dirty thoughts.
A sure sign of good times coming later. Literally.
And he’s so embarrassing, always demanding people agree with him when he says stuff like, “Doesn’t Lavender look gorgeous today? Isn’t Lavender’s hair so pretty?”
Not random people in the street, thank God. People in the house. People who work for him. And the poor gallery staff. Basically, people who’ll agree with him.
Except Primrose. Poor Primrose. She’s taken to fake gagging in the place of an answer.
“Lordy Lord.” I sigh, dropping my head to one side. Neck kisses. He discovered my kryptonite.
“I think we should go back to bed.”
“We just got out of it,” I protest. “I promised Daisy I’d make pancakes.”
“Let her wear a hat like other kids.”
I burst out laughing. “No throwing them today because you’re doing the washing up.”
“If you make it worth my while.”
“I might just be down for a little manhandling while your hands are all soapy.”
“Husband handling,” he growls. “Manhandling sounds a little too communal.”
“Only you.” I slide my hand between us, my fingers gripping his hardness. “Oh, you are eager. Too bad we’re going to the park after pancakes.”
“We need a new nanny.”
“I think you should ask Daisy about that. She likes things the way they are. Leo picking her up from school and an hour or two in the gallery with me.”
“Come into the pantry with me for a minute.”
“Not a chance,” I answer, flattening my hand over his bulge.
“I have something you want to see.” He swallows thickly, flexing into my hand.
“I’ve already seen it,” I whisper. “Twice this morning. Up close and personal.” I make to pull away when his hold tightens.
“It’ll only take a minute.”
“Then I’m definitely not interested,” I say with a laugh.
“Princess.” I groan, and Raif digs his hands into my waist. I laugh unexpectedly, my arms flailing and knocking the bag of flour to the ground.
“Leave it,” he says, but I’m already out of his arms.
“No tickling.” I point my finger at him. “That’s the rule.”
“Is it?” He takes a sauntering step closer, and my insides flip. He’s the big cat, all slink and prowl as he eyes a juicy gazelle he’s planning to devour.
Yippee!
“Yes. No tickling. We agreed.”
“No spontaneous outbursts of forced happiness, you mean?”
“No making me noodle-y and snorty, more like. Stop!” I feign left, but he lunges anyway when a little voice speaks.
“What are you doing?”
“Uncle Raif made me spill the flour.”
“Why was he chasing you?” The poor thing looks confused.
“He was hungry.” My eyes dart his way. He still looks hungry. “I wasn’t going fast enough.”
“You still got away.” His gaze drops lazily, tracing my outline with an obvious appreciation.
I spin away before his hot gaze makes me spontaneously combust. I bend and begin to scoop the spilled flour into my hands.
“Uncle Raif! Stop looking at Lavender’s bottom!”
“I’m supervising,” he protests. “Making sure she’s doing the job right.”
“Really?” I snap upright. “You know what? This mess is your fault. You clean it up.”
“Nope.” He snags me around my waist again. “We’re going out for pancakes.”
We give Daisy the choice of where to have breakfast, and instead of The Ivy—Raif’s suggestion—she chooses a café in Kensington. When we arrive, we discover the place is completely pink—the windows, the door, the flowers glued around the windows and doors. And the interior. Very pink. The chairs, the tables, the walls. And the ceiling. Well, the ceiling is mostly pink but for the golden disco balls and a tiny bit of greenery dotted between baubles and the flowers? Also pink. Many shades of.
“Can we sit next to the heart wall?” Daisy asks, tugging excitedly on Raif’s hand. I love this tiny sign of obnoxiousness. She’s really blossoming.
“Of course.” He glances that way. The place is packed. “If we can get a seat there.”
And because the universe doesn’t want to spoil a little girl’s dream Sunday brunch, a table opens up almost immediately. Right next to the wall of (mostly pink) neon-lit hearts.
“Well, look at you,” I say, addressing Daisy who is brimming with excitement as she swings her short legs. “Your T-shirt matches the wall.” It’s pink and dotted with sequined hearts.
She grins.
“We’ll have to buy Uncle Raif a matching one for our next visit.” He looks very out of place in his black cashmere sweater next to the pink wall, pink neon signs, and pink.
“I’m man enough to wear pink,” he says, picking up the menu. “Pink happens to be one of my favorite colors,” he says, in a very particular tone. “In fact, one of my favorite places in the world is pink.”
“Where’s that?” Daisy says, tilting her head her uncle’s way.
“Yeah, where, Uncle Raif?” I pull out my most annoyingly sweet smile and flutter my lashes for good measure.
“Have you got something in your eyes, Lavender?” Daisy asks before turning back.
“Might have.”
“I can’t think of anywhere you like that’s pink,” she continues.
“You haven’t been there,” Raif answers, almost hunching over the tiny table.
“Have I?” I ask.
“I might’ve seen you skirting the edges of the place once or twice.” He mouths, “Stop it.”
The server appears, and we order, eschewing the window full of pink cakes in favor of a proper breakfast. Sort of. Daisy orders Nutella pancakes, I opt for my go-to brekkie of eggs Benny, and Raif orders shakshuka. They’re such pretty dishes, arriving at the table adorned with edible viola flowers—not pinks—which Raif immediately pushes to the side.
“Uncle Raif can wear pink,” I whisper, sotto voce, “but he can’t be seen eating flowers. It might spoil his reputation.”
Daisy giggles, pressing her fingers delicately over her mouth, the little lady she is. Sadly, I end up wearing a globule of hollandaise with my first forkful.
“I only eat one kind of flower,” he says in that tone again. “Lavender, you know that.”
“Raif?” His face hardens very slightly at the sound of his name. Or maybe it’s the voice he objects to. “I thought it was you.”
Heels clack against the tile, and Raif frowns, clearing his throat as he politely stands. Or maybe he stands to try to prevent the proprietary hand that grasps his shoulder. Elegant fingers and long, pink-painted nails that belong to a glamazonian in a pink dress that I recognize as a Zimmerman.
She’s certainly dressed for the place—or maybe for the ’gram. Her dress flares outward like an old-fashioned toddler’s gown. The kind that would be worn with knickerbockers. She could probably do with a pair herself as the hemline skirts the very top of her tan thighs, and the neckline drops almost level with her belly button, where it ends in a cutesy bow. But she can carry it off—from her pink candy-striped stilettos and mini Lady Dior purse to her sleek, blond ponytail and flawless makeup. This woman is gorgeous.
“Hello, Celine.”
Fuck. He went out with this beauty queen?
She presses her body close and her lips to his cheek.
“It’s so good to see you.” She sounds like she means it, and she can’t stop staring at him even as he peels her hands away and holds them in front of him.
Holds her hands or restrains them?
Daisy makes a sound, and I glance her way, noting her frown. I’m not alone in my feelings, then. Even the seven-year-old can see this is awkward. Actually, what it is is fucking inappropriate.
“What are you doing here?” she asks, plucking at a piece of nothing from my husband’s sweater.
I clear my throat and quirk a brow so hard it hurts. I think I might’ve strained it.
“Sorry,” she says, her gaze barely grazing me. “Hey, Daisy. So nice of you to take the new nanny to brunch.”
Raif opens his mouth, but I beat him to it. Honestly, his responses—his reaction—are not quick enough to satisfy me.
“Try new wife,” I utter, sounding as pissed off as I feel.
“What?” Cue an awkward double take. And eyes on stalks. “You got married?” she accuses, as her head swings back his way. “Already?”
“Yes.” Raif’s mouth twitches. “This is Lavender, my wife. Sweetheart, this is Celine.”
“The expensive one,” Daisy whisper-hisses.
“Thank you, Daisy. I think I can see that.” I lean a little closer across the table. “Please don’t take a leaf out of my book, okay?” The little girl nods, though she doesn’t know why. “I’d say it’s nice to meet you,” I say, turning to the vision in pink, “but as rule, I try not to tell lies.”
“Lying is wrong,” Daisy says approvingly. “Except telling white lies so you don’t hurt anyone’s feelings.” Her blue eyes slide sideways. “Hello, Celine. It’s nice to see you.”
I try not to laugh. This girl cracks me up. But back to the matter at hand.
“I’d appreciate it if you would stop pawing my husband. Unless you want to end up in that window of cakes over there.” In case she’s a little slow on the uptake, I point my fork in that direction. Polly would not be impressed with my table manners, though I think she’d approve of the sentiment.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard,” I murmur, using it then to stick a little more egg into my mouth.
She is gorgeous—the kind of gorgeous I will never be. Not without surgery. A nip here, a tuck there, and lots of implants. A Brazilian butt-lift and breast augmentation at the very least. I’d probably also need my legs broken, then drilled with holes and fitted with metal pins. Even then, I’m not sure I’d get all those inches.
But I’m not her, and this is not a competition. Or if it is, I’ve already won, no matter how insecure I allow myself to feel. After all, Raif married me. He not only married me but he also asked me to stay. For real.
“I guess I pipped you at the post.” Because something tells me this is probably his ex-fiancée. Wow. Well done, Raif.
“She seems delightful.”
I don’t think she means that, do you, Raify?”
“I think you’re right, princess.” He smiles apologetically my way. “But then, Celine wasn’t the most intuitive woman I’ve ever met.”
“Who would that be, then?”
“You.”
“Maybe you should spell it out for her.”
“My wife is very jealous,” he says, as though imparting a secret.
“And it really could be a shame to spoil that dress.”
“Really?” she demands. “You’re going to let her speak to me like that?”
Raif barks out a laugh, and I swear I hear someone behind me mutter, “Bitch, please!”
“Off you toddle.” I make a walking motion with my fingers. “I think there’s a box somewhere waiting for you.”
“What? What is she talking about.”
“A suitcase, you mean?” Raif’s mouth twitches. He seems to be having fun.
“No. I was thinking she looks more like a Barbie doll.” Slutty Barbie.
“Well, really!” With a huff, she storms off, her heels clip-clopping across the tile.
Raif resumes his seat, ignoring prying eyes and smothered snickers. “How are your eggs?”
Like swallowing cement. “Fine,” I say instead. “I suddenly think I never want to see the color pink again.”
“It is a bit much,” he says, purposely misunderstanding me.
“Celine’s golden handshake must’ve been a good one.” I aim for blithe. What comes out of my mouth is shrew.
“There was no golden handshake.” His gaze flicks tellingly to Daisy.
“How are your pancakes, Daiz?”
“Yummy. But why would Uncle Raif paint his hand gold?”
“That’s the question, isn’t it?”
“I gave Celine nothing. We parted on unhappy terms.”
“She was certainly happy to see you.”
“The feeling wasn’t mutual.”
I feel like I can hear the ears round us straining, but I just can’t seem to help myself.
“Well, don’t expect me to go all Daphne du Maurier.”
Raif puts down his fork and wipes his mouth with his napkin. “You’re gonna have to explain that one to me.”
“I’m not doing a Rebecca.”
“Who’s Rebecca?” Daisy asks. “Is she expensive, too?”
“She’s not real,” I say. “Just a character from a book. One I have no intention of emulating.” Brave words from a woman who feels like Velma next to Raif’s version of Daphne.
“I should hope not.” Raif reaches for my hand. “You’re the first Mrs. Deveraux—the only Mrs. Deveraux.”
A warmth spreads through my insides. That’s ridiculous, right?
“I obviously didn’t think that one through,” I murmur primly.
“Is it a good book?” Daisy angles her head my way.
I shrug. “When you’re older, you can read it yourself and decide.”
“Rebecca isn’t a love story.” Raif’s fingers tighten on mine. “But this is. We’re living our happy ending.” His eyes shine bright as he adds, “All in, princess.”