Chapter 88: VALENTINE.

DANTE.

I let us into the house, stepped aside, and nodded toward the stairs.

"Go shower. Get dressed." I paused. "The outfit's already on the bed."

She looked at me.

"I picked it out," I said simply, and went to get ready before she started asking me questions.

I moved fast because I wanted to get ready before her. I took a shower, wore my fresh suit, pocket square, the good watch, the one she'd given me on our first anniversary with the inscription on the back that I still read sometimes when I needed to remember what I was doing right. I was downstairs with twenty minutes to spare, which was rare, and I stood at the bottom of the staircase with my hands in my pockets feeling, for lack of a more dignified word, giddy.

Then she appeared at the top of the stairs wearing magnificent red. The dress fell exactly as it was meant to, and she moved with grace. Her hair was down back to its full long wavy state. I missed her burgundy revenge hair so bad. I have been so tempted to ask her to go short once more. The earrings I'd chosen caught the light when she turned her head.

I didn't say anything for a moment because I lacked the words.

"You're staring," she said, descending slowly, hand trailing the banister.

"I'm allowed." I met her at the bottom and took her hand, raising it just slightly, not to spin her, just to see her. "You're my wife."

She laughed softly. A small, shy thing, the private version of her laugh, the one I liked most.

"You, my darling," I said, "are an angel on earth."

She kissed me in response and then her brow creased as she glanced around the house.

"Where's Oliver? I haven't heard him since we got back—"

"Gone for the day." I tucked her hand into the crook of my arm. "My mother has him. She was thrilled, in case you were going to ask. She practically ran me off the front door."

Cinnamon laughed, and the sound resonated in my chest as it always did. I loved seeing her so happy and content. My angel.

"Come on." I guided her toward the stairs.

"We just came down the stairs, Dante—"

"I know."

As we neared the outside door to the vacant room with glass windows that could serve as a balcony when opened, she paused. She attempted to take another step onto the rooftop terrace but stopped again, raising both hands to cover her mouth.

The early afternoon light was gold and soft, and the space had been transformed overnight into something that looked like it existed specifically to make her feel loved. String lights ran the perimeter, catching the daylight in small warm glows. A table set for two sat at the center, white linen, candles not yet lit but ready for when the evening came, a low arrangement of her favorite flowers running along the middle. The terrace walls were lined with arrangements she loved, and draped along the back, lit from beneath in a warm amber glow, was a standing sign in an elegant script:

'Happy Valentine's Day, My Wife.'

In the corner, standing at her full height, was the most enormous green teddy bear I had ever seen in my life. She had made an offhand comment about them three months ago, one sentence, she probably didn't even remember saying it, and I had remembered.

I always remembered because I was that kind of husband. Helplessly and happily in love.

"When did you—" She turned to me, eyes bright. "How did you—"

I didn't get to answer because she launched herself at me, arms around my neck, full weight, and I caught her easily, laughing against her hair.

"Happy Valentine's Day, love."

She kissed my cheek. My jaw. My cheek again.

"Open them," I said, nodding toward the table where the gifts were stacked.

She approached them like she wasn't sure they were real.

The chocolates first, the Belgian ones she'd mentioned once while watching someone eat them in a show and said "that looks criminal" under her breath. Then the jewelry box, and when she opened it, she went quiet in the way that meant she was overwhelmed and didn't want to cry and was going to cry anyway. Diamonds that I had chosen for her specifically, not because they were expensive but because the shape of them reminded me of her. Bright and a little unusual in the most perfect way.

Then the envelope.

She looked at me before she opened it.

Inside was a card, and behind the card, two boarding passes, a hotel confirmation, and an itinerary for a place for Lagos, Nigeria. She has been watching the African continent recently talking about how she would love to explore it.

"Dante—"

"Read the last one."

She reached for the small card at the bottom of the stack. Inside was a single key fob.

She looked at it. Looked at me.

I nodded toward the edge of the terrace.

She crossed to the railing and looked down at the driveway, and there was a white, gleaming, a massive red bow tied over the roof catching the afternoon breeze.

She spun around and ran back into my arms before I saw her move, half-laughing, her face pressed into my neck.

"Too much?" I asked.

"Never" she breathed.

I held her there for a long moment, her feet leaving the ground, my chin resting on top of her head, the city quietly going about its business several stories below us while up here, everything was still.

This was the only thing I'd ever wanted. This exact thing, her, here, safe, happy, mine.

I closed my eyes.

We stayed glued to each other for awhile before she pulled back and smiled at me.

"You okay?" I brushed a strand of hair from her face.

"Perfect," she said. "Thank you, honey."

"You're welcome, wifey," I kissed her and she devoured my mouth, moaning into me like a starved animal in heat.

Well, I knew how this was going to end tonight.

The lamb chops arrived just as the afternoon light began to turn golden. I watched Cinnamon's face when the server placed the plate in front of her. That fleeting, involuntary look of someone who hadn't realized how hungry they were until the delicious aroma reached them.

She picked up her fork but quickly set it down again to adjust her napkin on her lap, a small domestic habit she had never quite let go of. There was something about this ordinary moment that made my chest feel wonderfully full.

This woman. My woman.

"Stop looking at me like that," she said, still focused on her plate.

"I'm not looking at you in any particular way."

"You’re gazing at me like I’m this meal."

"You are," I replied simply, as I cut into my lamb.

She pressed her lips together to suppress a smile but lost that battle immediately.

The terrace was peaceful, with no interruptions—just the gentle rustle of wind through the trees below and the occasional chirping of birds from the garden. The flowers from earlier had warmed in the afternoon sun, and their scent now filled the air: soft, sweet, exactly as the florist had promised when I described what I wanted.

We ate and talked as we had learned to do—without any agenda or the subtle urgency that work and parenting often insert into our quiet moments. She shared something Risa had said the night before that made me laugh with my mouth full, and she covered her mouth while laughing at my reaction. For a moment, we were just two silly people who had somehow found each other and chosen to stay together.

"I can’t believe we headbutted each other on Valentine’s morning," she said, gingerly touching the faint tender spot on her forehead.

"That was entirely your fault."

"You snuck up on me—"

"I was being romantic, Cinnamon. There’s a difference." I shook my head. "You nearly broke my nose."

"Your nose is fine."

"My pride isn’t."

She laughed and reached across the table to briefly cover my hand with hers before returning to her food. I observed her eating for a moment.

She seemed quieter than usual. "

"Are you still hungover?" I asked.

She tilted her head from side to side. "It's subsiding. Not as bad as this morning." She pointed her fork at me. "This morning was criminal."

"Which is exactly why—" I gestured to the server, who had been unobtrusively waiting at the edge of the terrace, and he immediately returned with the champagne from the ice bucket. I poured a modest amount into her flute and slid it toward her.

She glanced at it, then back at me. "You want me to drink more."

"Just a little."

"Dante, I was barely functional four hours ago."

"Hair of the dog," I replied. "It actually works. Your body is still processing the alcohol from last night, and a small amount now eases the withdrawal effects. The headache clears up faster."

She stared at me with a mix of concern and intrigue. "Where did you learn that?"

"I read it on Google."

"Are you an alcoholic?"

"I look things up on Google out of curiosity, not because I'm trying to shape my lifestyle around them. Just drink it."

With great skepticism, she picked up the flute and took a small sip, wrinkling her nose in response. Then she paused for a moment before taking another sip.

"Don't say anything," she cautioned.

"I said absolutely nothing."

A few minutes later, she set down the flute, appearing slightly more composed, which was precisely what I'd hoped for. But when our eyes met, there was something behind hers that the champagne hadn't touched—an almost imperceptible crease between her brows that someone unfamiliar with her might easily overlook.

I laid down my cutlery. "Is everything okay?" My voice remained gentle as I reached across to take her hand in mine. She glanced at our joined hands for half a second before meeting my gaze.

"Yes, honey." A quick smile appeared on her face. "Do you know if something is going on with Dove?"

I picked my fork back up, cutting into the lamb. "Dove?" I mumbled through a genuinely excellent mouthful. "She's fantastic. Why are you asking?"

A weak smile. A small shrug. Then she dropped her eyes back to her plate and went back to eating, and whatever the question had been reaching for, she quietly folded it back up and put it away.

I let her.

For now.