“Hi,” she says breathily, tucking some dark hair behind her ear.
Every young head in the room swivels in my direction. “Hi,” I return.
“Class, you remember Mr. Whitlock, don’t you?”
“Yes, Mrs. Whitlock,” they say in unison.
“He brought you flowers!” one of them calls out, kicking off a chorus of ooooohs.
Grace bites her lip and laughs. “So he did. Wonder what the occasion is?”
I don’t get a chance to answer, because the bells rings and everyone moves at once, collecting their backpacks from the row of wall hooks and filing out into the hallway. Me and Grace stare at each other through the commotion, anticipating the moment we’ll be alone. Swear to God, my heart is trying to beat its way out of my goddamn chest. There are so many emotions flinging themselves around inside of me at once.
Hunger for my wife.
Love. Affection.
Pride in her for becoming the teacher she wanted to be.
Between student loans and the money I made fighting, we put her through school. Not an Ivy League college, but a damn good one. At twenty-three, I’m right there on the precipice of going professional. I’m about to make it happen—maybe even as soon as next week. The loans will be wiped clean and we’ll be able to take vacations. Fix up the house. Every second of the struggle in my career has been worth it.
There were tough nights during Grace’s college years where I walked in the door bloody and bruised, making her cry, making her want to quit school so I wouldn’t get hurt anymore. I wouldn’t let her. It was a fucking honor sacrificing my body for cash so she could succeed. And after all, my girl gave up her family for me. Financial comfort.
I won’t let her be sorry. I’ll never let her be sorry.
The way she’s looking at me now, she’s far from it.
“Walk you home, Mrs. Whitlock?” I manage around the lump in my throat.
“That would be lovely, Mr. Whitlock.”
She collects her purse, locks up the classroom and we walk hand in hand down the street, stealing glances at each other every few steps until we’re standing in front of the three-story brick house we bought with the money from my first fight. Grace turned it into a home, putting out a bright welcoming mat, curtains in the windows, flower boxes on every sill that riot with different colored blooms. My chest hurts with pride every time we walk up the front steps…but today, I’m going to carry her.
Without giving my wife a warning, I scoop her up, making her squeal. I carry her up the steps to the front door, content to hold her while she fishes the key out of her purse and unlocks the door. I toe it open and carry her over the threshold into our big, old-fashioned kitchen, breakfast dishes still in the sink, her pink slippers still beneath the table. We both sigh, because it’s home. It’s ours. And we’re so fucking happy here, it defies explanation.
“Tulip called me during my lunch break,” Grace says now, her head resting on my shoulder. “She’s going to fly home from Michigan after finals.”
Throat tugging, I drop the flowers onto the big, oval table. “Good. I miss having her around. How long is she staying?”
“A week. Maybe we’ll take her to the beach in Rye, if the weather is nice.”
“That sounds perfect.” I settle Grace onto her feet, keeping her close, pulling her up against me so I can breathe her in, mouth to mouth. “Everything is so damn perfect, beauty.”
“Yes, it is,” she whispers, winding her arms around my neck, pressing her sweet body up against my hungry one, rubbing her hips side to side and making us both groan.
And yeah, everything is perfect.
For a long time, there was a thorn under my skin in regards to Simmons. Grace’s father. I hated the fact that she sent him to prison. For me. That she had to give up everything she knew just to have me in her life. I’m breathing a little easier now that Simmons is no longer behind bars. Curtis Tennison still has some years left on his term, but at least Grace’s father isn’t locked in the penitentiary, thanks to him cooperating with detectives, giving information about Tennison, which is ultimately what they wanted.
Grace is the one who smoothed my concerns out most of all, though. There isn’t a day that goes by that she doesn’t tell me she would choose me all over again, every single time, no questions asked. That there wasn’t really a choice at all, because she can’t live without me. That she can’t breathe without me. And she says those words now against my mouth. She whispers them as I back her toward the kitchen table, boosting her up onto the edge and slipping my hands up her skirt, inside her panties to grip her bare hips.