I laughed. “Now how can I tell you that I like it without it sounding disingenuous?”
“You can’t. That’s why I said it. I can’t abide genuine praise.” He glanced down at the placement of his hands, took a breath, and began to play.
Every time I’d ever seen someone play a song for their lover in a movie or on TV, I’d rolled my eyes. Strenuously. It seemed like it would be the most uncomfortable thing in the world, to sit there, alone, not sure what face one should make so one didn’t look like one was having an adverse reaction. No matter how romantic an actor or writer managed to make a scene, I always cringed. Not even Edward Cullen had been able to make the scenario work for me.
It worked for me, now. El-Mudad didn’t try to gauge my reaction at all, keeping his eyes firmly trained on his hands. His fingers moved effortlessly, coaxing the sweetest melody from the keys. It wasn’t a sad song, or bittersweet as I’d thought romantic gestures of this nature were supposed to be. It was happy and mellow, and if I closed my eyes, I could imagine the windswept beach in front of our house and the smell of the salt on the air. It was lovely and poetic and, despite my initial fears, over too soon.
I didn’t realize I was crying until a tear hit the back of my hand. I wiped my eyes and laughed. “Wow. You even put Edward Cullen to shame.”
“I don’t know who that is,” he said doubtfully.
“From Twilight. Super hot vampire guy?” My heart had entirely melted over him when I’d been in high school.
“Ah. My daughters were too young. They missed that craze the first time around and are deeply critical of it now.” He looked down. It was the first time I’d ever seen him actually appear self-conscious, that I could recall. “I hope that means you liked it.”
“I did,” I hurried to assure him. “That was... I mean...nobody has ever cared about me enough to express it in instrumentation.”
He chuckled a little at that. “I’m sure that if Neil weren’t tone deaf, he would have composed you something by now.”
My heart pitched at that. “I-I wasn’t...” I searched for the word and landed on one that didn’t convey my meaning fully, frustrating me. “I wasn’t criticizing him. I hope you know that.”
“I know that.” He turned sideways on the bench. “Sophie, I know that you love Neil. We both love him.”
“I’m being silly.” I looked down at my hands in my lap. “Of course you know. I just don’t ever want either of you to think that I love one of you more and one of you less.”
“I don’t think that all. I think that we’re all in different stages of love, together.”
“How so?”
He thought for a moment, rubbing his hand over his chin. “You and Neil have been together far longer than the three of us have been. You were living with him when we first met. So your love is...settled. Comfortable.”
“Thanks, you make it sound so exciting,” I said with a derisive snort.
“I’m not implying that your relationship with Neil is lacking,” he explained evenly. “Just that it’s different. You have a history that you’ve built, and that you continue to build with him. But our story is only just beginning.”
“When you put it that way, it makes more sense. Before, it sounded like we were using you to spice up our dull marriage,” I joked.
He grinned. “Your marriage is anything but dull. In fact...”
Standing, he offered me his hand. When I took it, he pulled me to my feet and before I could protest, hefted me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
“I think I’m the one who should be more exciting,” he finished as I laughed and wriggled and he carried me from the hall. He had the good sense to set me on my feet when we got to the stairs. I raced ahead of him, laughing breathlessly.
“You won’t get away that easily,” he called up after me. “Is that what I’m supposed to say?”
“You can say anything you want. I’m getting in the tub!” The bathroom wasn’t exactly to my tastes—any place that didn’t have my favorite claw-foot tub was severely lacking—but it had a fantastic jacuzzi, big enough for two. Gold marble steps surrounded it on all sides, and I sat on the top one as I turned on the taps.
“I thought we were going to have sex,” El-Mudad said from the bedroom, raising his voice to be heard over the running water.
“Nobody said we weren’t.” I loved having sex in water, but my “too-tall” husband had drawn the line at bathtubs the time he cut his foot on the faucet.
El-Mudad had also made his views about water sex known but in a much less dramatic and bloody way. With a heavy sigh, he replied, “I’ll bring the silicone lube, then?”