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Giuseppina Delarosa just killed herself ten feet away from me. A shuddered laugh escaped me. Talk about fecking irony there. Many jobs accidentally went wrong. None had ever gone accidentally right.
She was gorgeous. Anyone with a set of eyes could see that. I didn’t look at her again.
They drifted over my face, my lips, and back down to the hand still covering my breasts. The hand previously in my hair came forward and laced through my fingers, slowly pulling my arm away. Despite the heat, a shiver wracked through me. His palm came over my right breast. His hand was so large, it covered it entirely. His thumb tucked under and ran a slow circle around my nipple. My toes curled against the tiled floors.
I hesitated. He didn’t.
“I hear you got a pretty new wife.” I froze. The whole room froze. The people, the air, the sounds, the blood in my veins. I clenched my hands over the top of my chair. “Where’d ya hear that, lad?” He snorted. “All your boys talk about her. She must be a tight little thing, with the way your own men talk about sticking it up her—” I shot him in the face.
Because I cared about her. I cared about my fiery, temperamental, talkative, stubborn, overly emotional and absolutely impossible wife.
He was a walking contradiction I couldn’t understand, especially when he whispered back, “Your husband.”
I frowned, mumbling around my cigarette, “My wife.”
“Quit torturing my wife.”
“And for the second part, promise me this is a real marriage, that you’re really my wife. That you’ll never leave, and I get to do this to you every day for the rest of my life.”
He kissed everything, my lips, my hair, my cheeks
was deeply and madly in love with. And I never even got to tell him
Pina O’Callaghan. My wife.
knew I was right. All my doubts erased when this special played. When I sat on this couch and listened to my wife speak. When she said the words I was looking for.