Overnight Wife(17)

He just squeezes me tighter against him, and I can’t deny, the feeling of his strong, muscular arms wrapped around me, cradling me against his hard chest, is reassuring. “It might not count as a threshold, but I’m pretty sure it’s tradition to carry your wife into the first place you’re going to share a meal together, isn’t it?”

I groan and roll my eyes, not that it does any good in terms of deterring him. I catch the sound of a chuckle, and spot the valet over John’s shoulder, having already accepted the keys from John, watching this whole spectacle with amusement.

In fact, quite a lot of people are watching, now that I’m looking.

John just tightens his hold on me and starts toward the stairs. “Your choice,” he says. “What do you think will be more embarrassing, walking in on your own two feet, covered in paint, or being carried in?” He is getting way too much enjoyment out of this.

“Both,” I grumble. “Both are embarrassing.” Behind us, a handful of other people on dates, all dressed to the nines, stare and point. Somewhere, a camera flashes. Great. Someone’s probably recognized John Walloway. “And everyone’s staring at us,” I hiss.

“Good,” he replies, not at all what I expect. But he sets me down, at least, at the top of the staircase, before we reach the actual hostess stand. Not that it makes any difference at this point. Half the restaurant saw us through the broad windows that look out over the street. “I want people to see us together,” he murmurs, leaning in closer, so his chin is tucked against my temple, his breath caressing my skin. “I want them to know you’re mine.”

My belly flutters at those words, my skin prickling with electricity all over again, the same way it did when he was holding me against his warm, strong chest. His hand traces down my arm until his fingers thread through mine, and I can’t help it, I squeeze his hand in response, remembering just how good this man is with his hands. All the sounds and screams he coaxed out of me, before…

My cheeks flush with heat, but luckily, we’ve reached the hostess stand now, and there’s no time to indulge the embarrassment.

John asks for a table, and the hostess doesn’t even ask about a reservation. She just flashes him a smile, the kind that tells me she knows exactly who he is. People have different smiles they use on rich, wealthy people. “Your usual table, Mr. Walloway?” the hostess asks.

“I’ve told you, you can call me John,” he says amiably, though he tugs me forward, and we trail after her through the restaurant.

“So you have, Mr. Walloway,” she responds, and it catches me off guard enough to make me chuckle. The hostess glances my way, something new in her expression now—curiosity.

I realize, too late, what all this means. John taking me to a place where he’s a regular, where people will see us, and know him.

I want them to know you’re mine.

He’s trying to make this marriage a public thing. With this huge ring on my finger, people won’t fail to start whispering about my appearance here with him.

It should irritate me. Piss me off, even. But there’s something hot about it. About how eager he is to claim me, and how he doesn’t seem to care about the consequences.

We’re barely seated before another server appears, and the bartender quickly behind him, dropping a pair of cocktails we didn’t order on our table.

“A new drink I’m testing,” the bartender explains, his eyes on John. “I’d like your opinion on it.”

“Of course.” John smiles, and the words are barely out of his mouth before an appetizer appears next.

“Compliments of the chef,” the waiter explains, before he vanishes.

We lean back in our seats, and I watch the waitstaff continue to fuss over him, my amusement growing with every passing moment. Finally, when the attention settles down, and we’re alone at our table with a heap of food and drinks we never ordered, I raise my glass. “Do you like this, then?” I ask.

“The food? You’ll love it,” he says. “It’s sublime.”

“Being treated like a king,” I correct, with a nod toward his plate, already heaped with the first course—the chef’s selection based on John’s tastes and preferences. Which, of course, they already know.

There’s a long pause, during which I flash a glance at him, wondering if I’ve struck a nerve.

But far from looking annoyed, John only seems pensive. Then he chuckles under his breath. “You know, I’m so used to being treated like this, I forget…”

I arch an eyebrow. “What, you think everybody gets this kind of treatment wherever they go?”

He shakes his head. “I just forget it’s not common, that’s all.”

“Believe me, I have never had anyone fuss over me this much,” I respond with a laugh.

But that makes his face shift into a more serious expression. “Well then, I’ll have to change that, won’t I?” he says softly. At the same time, his hand slides over to me, concealed beneath the long tablecloth. His palm comes to rest over my knee, squeezing gently, just hard enough to send a spark through my veins.

It’s enough to make me jump, that sudden contact, the unexpected touch. When I do, I’m still holding my cocktail in hand, the one I’ve yet to take a sip of, so it’s filled nearly to the brim. It splashes out across the tablecloth and my lap, making me gasp.