STELLA:Perfectly fine. Just don’t be surprised if you walk in and it looks like everything in the kitchen exploded.
THOMAS:Do I need to be worried?
STELLA:Of course not. I’m a professional, baby.
“That your wife?”
I lift my head at Arlo’s question, then wipe away the grin that’s somehow appeared on my face. “How’d you know?”
He smirks. “Because you’ve got fuckin’ hearts in your eyes, mate. Hope a woman makes me look like that one day.”
I snort. “We both know it will be several women, Arlo.”
“We can only hope.” After shooting me a wink, he shoulders his way around me and heads for the automatic doors to the car park. “See you at the party next week, old man.”
I watch him go, his words pinballing through my head as I grip my phone in my pocket.Hearts in my eyes?Seriously? He couldn’t be further from the truth.
I’ll admit that I’m very attracted to Stella, and have been from the first second I spotted her, so maybe that’s what he saw.But it’s not much more than that—physical attraction. There are thousands of women out there I could say the exact same thing about.
Except…I can’t deny that Stella is a cut above the rest. And, well, our trip might have changed things a little. The way she handled herself with Figgy and my family, plus how she was once again so willing to step up and help me, even when a solution seemed so far out of reach, had me looking at her in a completely different light.
Maybe it’s been building since we agreed to stay married. Kind of hard to avoid an emotional connection when you’re forced to get to know someone, especially when that person is fascinating. And hilarious. And intelligent, and kind, and so wickedly sharp, with a smile to match.
It’s hard not to like someone when they’re everything you could ever ask for.
The realization hits me hard, like a blow straight to the gut.
Ah shit.
I think I’m falling for my wife.
It’s nearly ten p.m. when I push through the front door, the scent of vanilla and sugar hitting me like a sweet slap.
“Stella?” I call out, dropping my things before heading to the kitchen where I assume she’s baking. I’ll be disappointed if it’s just a scented candle.
Thankfully, there’s food to be found when I round the corner. As one might expect from Stella Margaux, there are macarons on nearly every surface, but they’re joined by cupcakes, several varieties of cookies, and what I’m guessing are three different types of frosting. It’s a sugar lover’s paradise, and I’mso glad it’s the offseason so I can actually taste all of this and not have to explain it to my dietician tomorrow.
“Wow,” I exhale as Stella turns off a mixer. “It’s like my own personal episode ofBake Offin here.”
She shoots me a grin over her shoulder, an adorable smudge of flour across her cheek. “And I didn’t have a breakdown while making any of it either.”
I believe that based on the glow emanating from her. This is her happy place. She’s surrounded by the sweetest treats, her ideas coming to life in her hands. Somehow, I can’t imagine her doing anything else.
“I’m sorry for the mess,” she says. I appreciate that she doesn’t sound apologetic in the slightest. “Once I have a commercial kitchen, I’ll be out of your hair. Thanks for sending me that estate agent’s number, by the way. I’ve set up a few viewings.”
I pull out one of the stools at the island, sitting down and moving a plate of unassembled macarons out of the way. “I like having you here,” I admit. “It’s been nice having someone to come home to.”
Has it only been a day of that? Yes. But was it a delight yesterday to hear her upstairs on a conference call, a reminder that I’m no longer alone in this ridiculously large house? Also yes.
Stella snickers and returns to the batter bowl, taking it off the mixer stand a moment later. “Sounds like you should have gotten a dog ages ago.”
Smiling, I shake my head and grab a macaron off one of the many plates. I can’t say I know much about them, but these look perfect. And so does Stella—who’s wearing my Union Jack apron, which she swore she was going to hide when she saw me in it this morning. The sight has something glitching in my brain, the rule-abiding part of it shutting down.
I push up from my seat and approach her from behind. She startles when I wrap an arm loosely around her shoulders, my forearm banded across her collarbones, her back pressed to my chest. I hold up the macaron in my other hand. “What flavor is this?” I murmur next to her ear.
“Thomas.” The warning coincides with her tilting her head back in invitation, even if she doesn’t mean it to be. “You’re breaking several rules right now.”
“Can I not give my wife a hug?”
