Page 24 of Bartholomew
“Any book?” I questioned, my eyes wandering to the closest shelf where I saw titles of classics from Dickens to Austen, to Hardy. Stepping closer to the shelves, I let my fingertips trail over the spines of each book, feeling their differing textures and thinking about the stories hidden within their pages.
“Yes, any book at all. I only ask that if you have any questions, concerns, or thoughts, that you come and talk to me.” His request was an odd one. I saw the way his eyes flickered towards the shelves behind his desk. What books had he put there? What stories had he deemed necessary to put himself between the titles and prying eyes?
“I think I can agree to that,” I agreed, turning my thoughts away from the shelves behind his desk and focusing on the ones in front of me. “May I borrow a title today?”
“You may borrow a title every day from here to eternity, so long as it keeps that smile on your face.” He lifted my hand to his lips. I thought he would kiss the back of it and nearly blushed at the thought, but what he did had my jaw going slack and the funny feeling within my stomach erupting into a hurricane of swarming emotions. He flipped my hand over, pressing his open lips to my inner wrist. I felt his tongue barely flick against the pulse point and then — And then he made some small groan of a sound. A sound that vibrated against my tender flesh and had my paused breath returning in a staccato gasp.
“Your pulse is racing.” His words thrummed over the sensitive skin there at my wrist, his lips not having moved from that spot. He hovered there while I tried to remember how to speak. “Curiouser, and curiouser.”
Finally, he stood and walked away from me, leaving me there speechless in the study, wondering about pulse points and kisses. Curiouser, indeed.
* * *
The next three days passed slowly, but I would not have wished it to be any other way. Living in Bartholomew’s home — excuse me, our home — was a welcome reprieve to life with my parents. There was no one micromanaging my daily chores and schedule. Far from it, Ollie was almost the opposite. He continually pushed me to relax, to go do something other than cooking or cleaning. Luckily, he had let me cook. It brought me joy, more so than other activities. Though he never let an opportunity pass to remind me how much he loved to cook.
I could not even get started on the salad discussion. Time and time again, he would balk at the fact that I cooked him a delicious meal while I ate only a salad. It was not a conversation I wanted to have, and I would have much preferred taking his side of things. But my parents’ words rang loudly in my ear.
If I did not work to keep my figure at least where it was, what hope did I have of keeping Bartholomew happy? As it was, he had not visited our bed at night in the days we had been married. Sure, he had been clear on him not wanting to force me, and for that, I was eternally grateful. But how was one supposed to cross that bridge into marriage if he never visited our marital bed? He was my husband, and while the thought of reliving that moment of our wedding day in front of the Elders had my stomach roiling in distaste, I was also not unaware of my wifely duties. The entire purpose of our honeymoon was to get to know one another, become accustomed to marital life, and to create a child. We were barely getting to know one another. Marital life seemed to be going fine, but creating a child was literally impossible when you slept in separate beds.
“What are you reading today?” Ollie asked with a heavy sigh, flopping down on the sofa beside me.
“The Count of Monte Cristo,” I answered, showing him the title from where I sat on the edge of the couch. Had he not been there, I would have sprawled myself out across the sofa languidly like a cat in the sun’s rays, soaking up the warmth as quickly as I soaked up the words on the page.
“Interesting pick. Why that book?” he inquired, standing back up to pace the floor. He had been restless over the last day, in particular, never wanting to hold still for longer than a few moments. It was almost endearing to watch.
“I’m not sure, but I’ve always loved this book. There is something about the character arc that I just love. I’m not sure I could put words to it,” I half explained. In truth, I felt drawn to Edmond Dantes. His pursuit of revenge and the self-discovery that he went through on his journey to find said revenge resonated more deeply within myself than I cared to admit, especially to Ollie. If I were being completely honest with him, which I wasn’t, there was a part of me that wanted to leave this place and come back a changed and better woman. To show all the people just how wonderful of a human I was just as myself. That was not a Godly trait and was a thought I kept hidden one hundred percent of the time.
“Ugh, I just can’t anymore!” Ollie exclaimed, throwing himself onto the floor on his back like a child in the beginning stages of a tantrum. One that never appeared but, he stayed laying there on the ground like a child.
“Can’t take what anymore?” I asked quietly, my eyes lifting from my book to watch his little moment there on the floor.
“I’m bored. So bored,” he basically whined. It was hard not to smirk at it. Here he was, this gorgeous, full-grown man whining on the floor like a child. And somehow it wasn’t annoying or petulant, it was borderline adorable. In the last few days, I realized he had a knack for making me smile. And making me blush. And making me daydream about the little flirtations he sprinkled into our daily conversations like cinnamon on hot cocoa.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said somewhat dumbly, unsure of how to respond to such a statement.
“No, I’m serious. I am beyond bored. Let’s do something. Like a game!” he offered, his fingers tapping on the floor as he laid there.
“A game? Like a card game?” I asked, feeling my features furrow in distaste. I didn’t mean to, but sitting at the table quietly while playing a card game sounded awful.
“No, no. I’ve got it! Let’s play a different game. I have the perfect one. Oh, say yes! Say yes, Delilah. I promise it will be fun! Pretty please!” he begged like a child at Christmas, wanting to open their presents. It was laughable and I could not contain the smile that spread over my face or the laughter that bubbled up within me.
“Oh, strike me down, dear Lord above! The heavens have been brought to this Earth in the form of a giggle,” he waxed poetic, clutching at his heart with one hand and draping the other arm over his eyes dramatically.
“You’re a little ridiculous, you know that?” I giggled, unable to hold back.
“That. Please never stop giving that sass right back,” he laughed in return. Hearing him laugh helped me to relax. Better yet was seeing the way his eyes sparkled when he did. I shrugged the comment off, knowing full well that it was unbecoming of a woman of Zion to act in such a way, yet enjoying the few stolen moments we had shared so far. Perhaps a sprinkling here and there was worth the risk.
“So, what do you say? Game time?” he pushed once more, waggling his eyebrows.
“Fine, fine. We can play a game,” I sighed in defeat, closing my book and setting it to the side. He sprang up from the floor in excitement, clapping his hands together and doing a dance that had my emotions warring between shock and hysterical laughter.
“What are you doing?!” I managed between giggles.
“It’s called a happy dance. You should try it sometime.”
“I think I’m good right here, thanks,” I insisted, resisting the urge to roll my eyes.
“Fine by me, for today, at least. Now, it’s time for twenty questions,” he stated, his eyes sparkling with mischievousness.
