Page 137 of The Marriage Clause

Bare feet on the wood floor of the villa. The soft rustle of a robe. She rounds the corner into the kitchen and stops.

The expression on her face.

That's the thing about Aria. Every thought she has lives on the surface, unlike me. She couldn't hide a reaction if her life depended on it. Right now her face is cycling through surprise, confusion, and the particular kind of disbelief she reserves for moments when I do something she didn't expect a human being to be capable of.

Like standing in a kitchen without a suit on.

"Morning," I say.

She blinks at me from the edge of the room. "You're not in your office."

"No."

"You're not on a call."

"No."

"You're not wearing a suit."

"It's seven thirty in the morning, Aria."

She lets out a chuckle and starts walking again from where she'd frozen. "That has literally never stopped you before."

She makes a fair point.

I lean against the counter and watch her take inventory. The plated food, the two cups of coffee, the fact that I am standing here in bare feet like some approximation of a normal husband on a normal morning.

"I took the morning off," I say.

Her hand stalls on the fork she just picked up. She looks at me like I've grown another head.

"You took the morning off."

"You're repeating everything I say."

"Because nothing you're saying sounds real. Are you sick? Are you dying? You can tell me if you're dying."

The left corner of my lips shifts up. The one side I can never quite control around her.

I reach behind me for the coffee. Hold it out.

She crosses the kitchen slowly. Takes it. Wraps both hands around it and takes a deep inhale, her eyes fluttering closed.

Her eyes come up to mine.

"This is perfect. When did I tell you how I take my coffee?"

"You didn't. Your father told me. At the rehearsal dinner."

She stares at me. "You remembered that?"

"I don't miss details."

Especially when they are about you.

I don't say that last part out loud because I can remember quarterly revenue projections from three years ago. I remember the exact wording of a contract clause I read at twenty-two. The thing is, I don't remember any of those things the way I remember anything to do with her.

"Thank you," she says softly.