“Me too. Care to join me?” he asks, discarding the washcloth onto the floor.
I click my tongue, and he sighs before he picks it up and walks it to the laundry basket a few feet away. He even makes a show of plucking our dirty clothes off the floor and walking those to the laundry basket after.
“I’d love to join you,” I tell him, but before I can stand up, he picks me up from the bed and carries me out of the bedroom in his arms.
“Julian! There are workers in the garden?—”
He chuckles. “That’s all the way outside. There’s no one here.”
We walk into the small guest bathroom—the one we’re using for the time being—and we step into the shower together. Julian begins washing my hair, his fingers gently massaging my scalp. The motion is practiced, something he enjoys doing whenever we shower together. I lean back into his touch, letting the warm water wash over me.
“This okay?” he asks, his voice low and soft.
“Perfect,” I murmur.
Once my hair is rinsed, he reaches for the soap, lathering it carefully before he begins to wash my body. His touch is familiar, yet grounding. Firm yet tender.
When we’re done, he dries me off, and I look up at him with a shy smile.
“God, Soph,” he murmurs, kissing my forehead. “When you look at me like that…” He trails off, and his eyes go watery. “I’m the luckiest fucking man alive.”
“I love you,” I tell him, placing my cheek against his chest.
“I love you more.”
After we get dressed—he in another three-piece suit, and me in loose jeans and a cashmere jumper—we walk downstairs hand in hand to survey the progress of the renovations. My hair is still damp, so I shake it out with my hand as we walk between sheets of plastic to the kitchen.
“The cabinet handles came in today,” he tells me as we walk into what looks like a woodworking shop.
There are large pieces of raw wood everywhere, bits of sawdust, cans of paint, and more of that plastic fucking sheet material. I knew a renovation of this size would take a long time, but as I survey the damage, I can’t envision an end.
I can’t visualize myself here yet.
I can’tseethe picture Julian is always trying to paint of the finished project.
All I can concentrate on is the mess.
And I hate when things are messy.
Julian sees it—the finished house, the perfect picture. But I struggle. I don’t want to just live inside someone else’s vision. I need something that feels like mine. A room, a project, a purpose. Something that isn’t plaster and marble.
“This brass will look nice against the brown cabinets,” Julian says, handing me a piece of what I’m assuming will be a handle.
My thumb brushes over the high-quality metal. I know, from what the designer showed us, that this kitchen will be state of the art.
Only the best for my husband, Lord Julian Archer Ashford, Viscount of Brookshire.
I sigh as I lean against the marble island. “I’m excited to see it all come together. Right now, it just feels… excruciatingly slow going.”
Julian presses me into the island and steps between my legs as he takes my other hand.
“I’ve been thinking… maybe we should throw a party when it’s all done. Something big and grand. A way to celebrate what we’re building here.”
Julian smiles. “I like it. Obviously the best champagne, Michelin-starred chefs, live music?—”
“Imagine how gorgeous the staircase would look with some of those fresh magnolia flowers from the tree outside,” I chime in, my heart racing with excitement. “Fresh seafood… we have to take advantage of living so close to the ocean,” I explain. “And once your art and my books arrive…” He grins. My eyes flick between his eyes. “What?”
He kisses me—long, deep, and slow. When he pulls away, he lets out a tortured sigh.
