People mill around, carrying trays of drinks and food, skirting scattered lanterns and a low sofa setting. There’s a small dais with a lone guitarist quietly plucking away on a classical guitar. So much to see. So much to wonder about, until my eyes snag on Niko. He stands on the shoreline, gazing over the vast ocean, one stark lonely figure against such a backdrop of majesty. I choose not to dwell on the thought. How could I pity him when the world seems to bend to him?
“Shall we leave our shoes here?” I don’t have to ask the boys twice. And I don’t have to worry about any awkwardness when the boys go haring off after Niko.
What can I do, but follow?
“This is all very lovely,” I say as I reach the shoreline. He’s wearing that expression again. Quietly pleased. “Archie, try not to get wet,” I half laugh, turning away. Lovely. Satisfied by a tiny word of praise. I must be getting fanciful in my old age. “But there was no need to keep it secret.”
“He didn’t keep it secret from me,” Hugh pipes up, reminding me to be careful with my words.
“I wanted it to be a surprise.” Those words feel like a lick to the inside wall of my stomach. Lord help me, because then he rest his palm at the small of my back. “Good surprise or bad surprise?” His gaze narrows almost infinitesimally, daring me to tell the truth.
“Good,” I say softly. “It’s so, so pretty.” And I’m touched that he would go to the trouble because, surely, this wasn’t for appearance sakes.
“But not nearly as pretty as you. You look beautiful, Isla.” His gaze smolders as it slides over me, heating my skin. He leans toward me, and I him, his features becoming indistinct, until…
“Not now, not now!” We spring apart as Archie inserts himself between us. “You’re supposed to save the kissing for the end.”
What? We almost kissed. In front of the boys. A first that should’ve felt odd, not normal. Not inevitable.
Submit, my mind whispers. Wasn’t that what I decided?
For today.
“Are you keeping your shoes on?” Archie demands. Four pairs of eyes drop to Niko’s shiny black Oxfords. Probably handmade. “We’re not wearing ours,” he says, wiggling his toes in the sand.
“I don’t want to be the odd one out,” Niko answers, lifting one foot and pulling off the shoe off by the heel. Both Archie and Hugh laugh as he pitches it over their heads, the other shoe to follow.
“You won’t be able to do that when we go home,” my littlest man says. “Or you’ll make Mummy cross. But you could get a laundry basket like mine. It’s made like a basketball hoop and hangs on the back of my bedroom door.”
“That sounds…”
Too much like real life creeping in. I inhale, preparing to change the topic when Archie beats me to it.
“Will Uncle Van sleep in your bed, Mummy? Or will he sleep in the spare bedroom, like Daddy did?”
Dear Lord! From the mouths of babes comes too much trouble sometimes.
“I might want to steal your room.” Niko doesn’t bother to hide his pleasure at that little insight as he ruffles his hand though Archie’s hair. “You were right about the shoes.”
“I know. Socks and sand are yukky. Are we going to eat soon?” he adds, his eyes riveted to a passing tray of food. “My tummy’s getting quite hungry.” As though to support his point, his gives it a little rub.
“Soon,” Niko replies. “I just need to borrow your mummy for a minute.”
Archie shrugs, unfussed as Niko takes my hand.
“Am I to be relegated to the spare bedroom?” he asks once we’re out of earshot.
“We haven’t even talked about any of this,” I begin, nervously. “About what happens when we get back, or anything.”
“Let’s start with tonight.” His footsteps slow and he turns to face me, still holding my hand. He gives it a reassuring squeeze. “Our wedding night,” he adds softly.
“Do we have to have a wedding night? It’s not set in stone or anything, is it?”
“So you can have it annulled you mean?”
“Who’d know? It would just be your word against mine.”
“Well,” he says, ruffling a hand through his hair. “I wasn’t expecting a declaration of undying love, but I’d hoped you wouldn’t be so keen to get rid of me.”
“That’s not it at all.” My gaze slides sideways to avoid the intensity in his. “I’m grateful for everything you’ve done.”
“I don’t want your gratitude,” he says, his voice suddenly husky. “I want to be invited into your bed.” His finger at my chin, he turns me to face him, his words a dark, sweet assault. “I want to be invited into your body.”
I want the same but for different reasons.
“What’s it to be?” A smile catches at the corner of his mouth. “Is it the spare bedroom for me?”