Page 87 of The Wrong Husband

"I see your mother. Her casual ensemble costs more than what my loft would if I had to buy it."

"Wear whatever you want, I don’t give a shit. I think you look good in a fucking sack. And speaking of your loft, you own it already so—."

"What does that mean?"

"Archer bought it, which means you are an owner."

"I signed a post-nuptial agreement," I reminded him.

He shrugged. "Never filed it."

"What?"

He nodded, taking my hand in his. “I should have. But even then, in the beginning, I knew that I wanted this to work, to last. The PR circus was just an excuse. I can see that now."

I eyed him suspiciously. "It was the sex that first night, wasn't it? I gave good sex."

The smile on his face made my heart beat faster. "You give the best sex, Em." His voice was hoarse, and his eyes were moist.

I sniffled and pulled him into a hug.

I wanted to talk about so many things. I wanted to tell him how I wanted to go back to school in Chicago. Or maybe I could go to art school here.

I wanted to tell him how I wanted to paint full time and not do restoration work anymore.

I wanted to tell him I wanted to have babies.

But we had time. A lifetime. So, I held on to him, letting him know that I loved him.

"Thank God, Em. Thank fucking God."

I felt his tears against my neck, and I knew that he could feel mine as well. In my defense, I cried a lot and easily—he didn't, so it was special, and it made me cry even harder.

"I love you," I whispered to soothe him.

He lifted his head and kissed my nose. "I love you too."

We stood there for a while, watching the fog drift across the bay.

"Let's go home, I need to finish the painting."

"I thought you finished it."

"Not yet. In the sky I want to paint a swarm of butterflies with wings of stained glass. I want their fragile beauty to contrast with the harshness of the landscape."

"Butterflies?"

"Yes." I kissed him softly. "They represent hope."

As we walked back, hand in hand, I ventured into more contentious subjects like where we would live. "Now, Damian, marriage is all about compromise."

"Fucking hell, Em," he growled.

"I don't like the Four Seasons."

"We can't live in a loft once we have kids."

"Whoa! Kids, already? We're barely married, this is the first time we even said I love you to each other. Slow your motor, dude."