Chapter 35
Skylar
"Taylor Swift? You’re playing Taylor Swift?
" The familiar words of “All Too Well” play over the speakers in the background.
After placing a robe around my shoulders—one which looks like the one I own, and which he confirms is mine, because he enlisted a team to pack up most of my possessions from my apartment while I was getting dressed for the wedding—he cinches it firmly at my waist and walks me over to the island in the kitchen.
I should feel upset that he packed up my stuff without asking me, but there’s something to be said about having him take charge.
Besides, he did mention to me that I’d have to move in with him so the relationship would look genuine.
I wasn’t happy about that, but it wasn’t something I could refuse.
It’s important his grandfather buys into the veracity of this marriage.
Also, I’m keeping my apartment, since it’s so conveniently located over my bakery, and that means, I can go up whenever I feel the need for space.
"Does it not bother you?" I ask.
"What do you mean?" He frowns.
"Having music in the background." I point in the direction of the speakers. "Does it not hurt your, uh, hearing?"
"If the sound increases over a certain decibel, or if there’s too much heavy bass, then yes. But at this decibel, it doesn’t bother me… much."
"So, it does bother you?" I chew the inside of my cheek.
"It’s worth it." He half smiles.
Something softens in my heart. "How did you know that song was my favorite?"
"I happened to catch the video of the song during my research, and I admit, it pulled me in."
"You researched her and listened to her songs?" That melting sensation in my heart spreads to my belly and, lower still, to between my legs. Is there anything more freakin’ romantic than your husband spending time to find out more about your tastes?
"It wasn’t exactly a hardship, especially when her lyrics do seem to come from a place of genuineness."
"Oh, they do. She writes based on her real heartbreaks.
The lyrics of ‘All Too Well,’ for example, are inspired by her affair with Jake Gyllenhaal," who I have a secret crush on, and who my husband resembles. Gah! I’m married to a Jake Gyllenhaal lookalike, and not just his face.
That gorgeous body of his is every bit as sculpted and molded into a piece of art as any very fit Hollywood movie star.
I take in the way the planes of Nate’s back flex as he reaches up to take down a couple of glasses from the shelf.
His very distracting, very chiseled back has a tattoo of a trident with the words “I am the captain of my soul and the master of my fate” scrawled in a semi-circle under it.
Below that, what appear to be the names of people?
The elaborate style of the script renders the names themselves illegible at this distance.
He must sense my perusal, for he rumbles, "They’re the names of the men from my regiment who’ve given their lives in the course of duty."
The last of the names disappears under the waistband of his sweatpants. The first letter of that name looks like B—
He turns before I can decipher it. "I forgot to pull on a T-shirt."
Before I can protest and tell him that’s not needed, he marches out of the kitchen and returns a few minutes later, wearing a T-shirt. Not that it helps, for the thin, much-washed fabric clings to his biceps and stretches across his chest, lovingly outlining every sinew of his shoulders.
There’s a look of intense concentration on his features. His brow is furrowed. "You know I’ll never hurt you, right?" He scans my features. "You know I’ll do everything possible to take care of you, whether we’re married or not?"
I blink slowly. "Are you thinking of a time in the future when we’re not married?"
He hesitates.
That’s not very reassuring, is it?
He fills the glasses with water from the tap, then walks over to slide one in front of me. "Drink" he orders.
I roll my eyes at the command but reach for the glass because I’m parched.
When I set down the water, he rounds the island to stand next to me.
"The one thing I’ve learned is that life is not to be taken for granted.
Everything and everyone we love has an expiry date on it.
And the more we love them, the more it hurts when they’re gone. "
There’s a thread of seriousness running through his words, something earnest, something almost pleading. Something that causes the hackles on my neck to stand up. "Nate, what are you trying to tell me?" I whisper.
The furrow between his eyebrows deepens.
He turns me around to face him and plants his hands on the island, bracketing me in.
"That all good times in life are temporary. That we need to remember the memories as we create them, for they’ll soon be gone.
That the moments in life when everything seems right are fleeting. "
"That’s a bleak outlook." I stare into those mismatched eyes of his, and the shadows of pain and regret in his look back at me. "What is it? What is it that you’ve seen that makes you this cynical, this weary, this… disillusioned?"
"What have I not seen?" He laughs, and the sound is bitter. "A mother losing her son; a child being killed through no fault of his own; a fellow soldier surviving war, only to take his own life, leaving his family shattered." The skin around his eyes tightens, and his lips thin. "Life is cruel."
"Life rewards you when you least expect it," I counter.
"Life teaches you never to trust, for the people you think you can count on are the ones who disappear." He snaps his fingers, and I flinch. "Poof, and they’re gone, just like that."
The sorrow that vibrates off of him is so dark, so filled with agony and regret and grief… So much grief, I know, he’s talking about someone in particular.
"Who did you lose?" I cup his cheek. "Tell me, Nate. Who are you talking about?"
That’s when the doorbell rings. He blinks, and the emotions from his face vanish, like he’s turned off a tap. Once more, he’s wearing that mask of slight boredom, the one that helps him put a wall between himself and the world.
"That must be the food." He straightens and begins to walk toward the door of the kitchen.
"You ordered food?"
He waggles his eyebrows. “It’s our wedding night. I knew we’d need to replenish our energy.” When I begin to respond, he adds, “I scheduled this about a week ago; something special to celebrate a special night.” Then, he winks.
I’m speechless. This man is so thoughtful. I begin to follow him out, but he glances over his shoulder and stabs a finger at me. “Stay here."
I should have known when he said he arranged this about a week ago. Of course he didn’t order food from a delivery app because that would be too normal. No, a team of caterers bustle in, led by a man wearing a suit.
They head over to the round dining table under the large window in the kitchen, which looks out over the garden below.
There’s a flurry of activity as they spread a tablecloth, set the table for two, even plant a vase with flowers on the table, before placing a variety of dishes on the surface.
When the team is done, they line up along the side—I kid you not, they line up like this is an army drill—and the man in the suit turns to us.
"Sir, Ma’am,”—he looks between us—"if I may, I’d like to tell you what’s on the menu. "
"This is Otis, my grandfather’s butler." Nate gestures to the man. "He was there at the wedding, but you might have been too pre-occupied to notice."
Otis dips his chin at me. "My congratulations to the both of you."
"Thank you," I murmur.
Nate waves his hand. "Go on then, Otis, tell us what James has sent us."
Otis clears his throat. "The Champagne is a Louis Roederer Cristal Brut."
I raise my eyebrows. O-k-a-y. That must cost, at least, one-thousand dollars per bottle.
"For the starters, we have Burrata cheese with heirloom tomatoes, basil pesto and balsamic reduction, seared scallops with cauliflower puree, and a basket of warm bread.” For each item described, he uses his hands to point out their location.
Yum! My mouth begins to water.
"For the salad, there’s mixed baby greens with shaved fennel, crispy prosciutto, and lemon vinaigrette. This is followed by a salmon en croute stuffed with spinach and ricotta in beurre blanc sauce for the lady."
How did he know I prefer fish? I shoot Nate a glance, and he tilts his head. Hmm, so he found a way to obtain more information about my tastes.
"And for you, Sir, there’s chicken saltimbocca with sage, prosciutto, and a madeira wine sauce over risotto."
"Much appreciated." Nate offers a polite smile.
"The sides include sautéed wild mushrooms, and roasted Brussel sprouts with pancetta and parmesan risotto."
I do love both mushrooms and Brussel sprouts—weird, I know.
"And for dessert—" He pauses and looks at me.
I straighten my spine.
"There are chocolate molten lava cakes, and fresh berries with sweet ricotta and honey."
"Those are my favorites!" I clap my hands. “Thank you so much. All of it looks delicious.”
"I’ll pass that onto the chef." Otis’ lips twitch.
"Thank you." Nate walks over and claps the man on his shoulder. "Tell James I owe him."
Otis dips his chin. "You know he’s only too happy to make the time for you. As am I." He turns and claps his hand once, and the team turns and marches out. Otis follows them.
When they’re gone, Nate turns to me. "Shall we?" He walks over to pull out a chair for me.
The scent of food teases my nostrils, and my stomach grumbles.
I slip off the stool and head toward the table.
Even though the team laid it out in front of me, I can’t stop marveling at how pretty everything looks.
Each of the dishes is beautifully presented, the cutlery sparkles, and the bottle of Champagne in the ice bucket looks crisp and refreshing. "I assume James is the chef?"
He nods. "James Hamilton is a chef I happen to know well, and who agreed to—"
"Not the Michelin-starred James Hamilton?" I glance up in time to see him nod.
"The same. He’s a former Royal Marine and served with me."
"I had no idea."
"I don’t think he talks about it much. He’s one of us who managed to carve out a whole new career after leaving the Marines.
"Like you did?"
His face closes further. "When my grandfather called me, I couldn’t say no. This was my chance to find out more about where I came from. Besides, he needed me, and it was my duty to help him out." His words sound smooth. Too smooth. Too rehearsed, perhaps?
My stomach does a nervous flip. Why do I get the feeling he’s hiding something from me again? I open my mouth to ask, when he pushes my chair in, then walks around to take his seat.
He raises the Champagne bottle and pops the cork. He pours the sparkling liquid into my flute and places it back in the bucket before pouring sparkling water for himself. He raises his glass, and when I mirror his action, he clinks his glass with mine. "To you, my wife."