Page 184 of This Woman Forever

I don’t want to leave, and I can see Ava is having the same fleeting thoughts. But she will because of her job. And that fucking sucks.

On Friday, we ventured out for a few hours to grab lunch, had a minor, trivial chat about suitable levels of exposed flesh in public—hers, not mine—played cards when we got home, invented Sleepy Twilight Sex—a new favorite, which sucks harder because that can only happen in Paradise—and skinny-dipped in the Med. On Saturday, I had the pleasure of Ava in her bikini for most of the day, dipping in and out of the pool, sunbathing, just generally chilling out. Watching her looking so laid-back does something to me. As does tending to her in every way imaginable. Shower time, breakfast time, dressing, undressing, rubbing her sun lotion in, fetching her water, feeding her. Just looking after her. Being on call. Smothering her, and Ava accepting it. Loving it. Because that’s all there is to do. Love each other.

Fuck, I really don’t want to leave.

Standing in front of the mirror after a shower, I inspect the man before me. I’ve never seen him look so well. Content, calm, and fresh. The Paradise Effect. Work isn’t on my mind. I haven’t wanted to tell Ava—haven’t wanted to burst this luxurious bubble—but Sarah’s back and things are straight at The Manor once again. Lauren isn’t playing on my mind like she was, although there’s definitely an odd mix of relief and guilt lingering somewhere deep that I’m trying to keep buried. Because what good will it do to let it surface? She was troubled. I spent years blaming myself, even though she hurt me. Physically with a knife, and emotionally with my daughter. But now that she’s passed and I don’t fear seeing her ever again, it’s time to let go of some of that guilt. There’s no room for Lauren in my pool of remorse.

I dry my body and leave the bathroom, rubbing the towel through my hair, but stop on the threshold of the bedroom when I find Ava on the bed concentrating on painting her toes. My olive-skinned girl is bronzed and beautiful. And her tummy is definitely rounder. Small, tidy, and tight. She’s surrounded by clean, crisp white, the bedding messy around her, the white voile drapes billowing lightly at the doors onto the veranda. The sun is hazy through the material, the smell of the sea ripe. I pout to myself, disheartened that I have to take her back to London tomorrow.

She looks up, and her body deflates with her dreamy sigh. That right there? Gold. I wander over as she props herself up against the headboard, her eyes following my path to the bed, and then up it as I walk on my knees to her.

“Let me,” I say, putting her feet on my lap over the towel.

“You want to paint my toes?” she asks, interested as I claim the pot of polish. A lovely pink that complements her tan gorgeously.

“I may as well get some practice in.” She has the loveliest toes. Perfectly formed. “You won’t be able to reach them soon.”

She kicks me playfully, and I grunt through my laugh, getting her feet back in place on my lap. I need to concentrate. Show my wife that I can literally do anything if it involves taking care of her.

She’s quiet, and not for the first time since we’ve been here, I hear her thinking. “I don’t want to go home,” she whispers, almost sadly. It’s the first time she’s spoken her thoughts, and it’s so nice to hear her say that.

“Me either, baby.” I start with her big toe, getting some practice in before I tackle the small, trickier toenails.

“When can we come back?”

“We can come back whenever you like. Just say the word and I’ll put you on that plane.” Shit, I got a bit on her skin. God damn me. I drag my thumb across the bottom of her toe and pull back, inspecting, nodding my happiness. “Have you had a nice time?” I ask, getting a hit of the bliss staring back at me when I look up.

“Paradise,” she says wistfully. “Continue.”

I bet she never dreamt she’d enjoy being crowded as much as this. I realize it’s probably the Paradise Effect—no one else to please, no work to do, no drama around the corner—but she’s loved our time here alone. “Yes, my lady.”

“Good boy.” She snuggles deep into the pillow, watching me color her toenails. “What happens when we get home?”

I hold back my disappointed sigh, concentrating on her feet and not fucking up my task. I knew the questions had started swirling, and they’ll only increase the closer we get to London.

“What happens is that you’ll go to work and finally fulfil your promise to enlighten Patrick about Mikael.” Or, hopefully, given how much she’s enjoyed being here, she’ll see sense and quit.

“Do you think Mikael stole your car?”

“I have no fucking clue, Ava.” It seems more unlikely by the day, the more I think about it. He’s a smart man. “I’m dealing with it, so don’t worry your pretty little head.” I switch feet.

“How are you dealing with it?”

I turn steely eyes up to her, and she reads the look well, withdrawing. I’m not ruining our last night with talk of London. “End of.” I return to her toes, arranging the tissue between them better so it doesn’t brush any of her wet nails. I really have a knack for this, although the brush could be smaller and the handle a little larger for men with large hands and big fingers like me.

Her little toes—the smallest—require just one light stroke with the brush, and I’m finished. “You’re done,” I say, replacing the lid and inspecting my work. “I’m even amazing at this.”

Ava pulls her feet close and has her own inspection. “Not bad,” she muses quietly.

“Not bad?” I question, insulted. “I’ve done a better job than you’d ever do, lady.” I smirk as I get up, seeing a sea of disgust rise. “You’re so lucky to have me.”

“Aren’t you lucky?”

“I’m luckier.” Her indignance vanishes, her appreciation back. “Come on, lady. Let’s go exploring.

34

The marina is alive when we pull up, every luxury car known to man parked in front of the port where an insane number of yachts and super yachts are docked.

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