The Girl in the Painting

It was less than a year ago, and Ansel had pretty much had it with our moms’ meddling and trying to plan our wedding. Between the flowers and invitations and all the people they wanted to invite, he was done with all of it. Not to mention the whole part about the press latching on to the idea that Ansel Bray was marrying the girl in the painting.

Once we had to start talking about having security on our wedding day, my soon-to-be husband needed an escape.

A weekend getaway, he said.

I agreed, even though I didn’t really have a choice. Once Ansel sets his mind to something, he’s determined and nearly impossible to budge.

So, I gave him free rein, thinking he’d pick somewhere like the Bahamas or Hawaii, somewhere tropical where we could just lounge around on the beach all day and drink piña coladas. Someplace where we could wrap ourselves inside a warm, cozy, picturesque bubble and forget about the rest of the world for a little while.

But I should’ve known. Bahamas, Hawaii, those aren’t destinations for handsome, broody artists. Not even close.

A seven-hour flight later, we were in Paris.

And not even twenty-fours after we landed, Ansel was getting down on one knee in the Louvre, right in front of Venus de Milo, one of the most famous sculptures in the world.

He proposed to me…again.

I cried…again.

And of course, I said yes…again.

By the next day, we were married in this secret little garden in the center of the City of Love by an officiant named Luc.

Sure, our moms were pissed when we got back home and they found out we’d rained on their wedding-planning parade, but it didn’t matter. Nothing could change the fact that the day I said “I do” to my handsome, broody husband was the very best day of my life.

It was just the two of us.

Unexpected and quiet and intimate.

Simply put, it was us. It was perfect. So perfect, in fact, it’s the exact day the little bundle of joy inside my belly was created.

Yeah, life is definitely crazy. Insane and messy, even. But when you find the person you’re meant to spend the rest of your life with, it’s beautiful.

A beautiful mess of hope and kisses and smiles and just…love.

So much love.

Ansel

“Ansel?” Indy’s voice filters up from the first floor of our house. “Where are you?”

“Upstairs! In the bathroom!” I call back and step out of the shower, grabbing a towel from the rack and starting the process of drying myself off.

Slow but sure, her footsteps make their way up the stairs and into our bedroom.

“I thought you were going to be in the Upper East Side studio all day?” she asks, and I hear the sounds of sandals being flipped off her feet.

Hell, I’m pretty sure they even hit the wall.

This grouchy demeanor of hers has become a staple over the past few weeks. It’s pretty adorable and the idea of it makes me grin, but wisely, I keep my mouth shut about her mood and the wall. “I did, but I didn’t end up staying as late as I thought I would.”

If I’m being honest, I left earlier than I probably should’ve so I could be home with Indy. My beautiful wife has reached a point in her pregnancy where she is over being pregnant. Needless to say, she’s ready for our daughter to make her big debut, and I just want to be here to support her, even if that means being her grouchy-remarks punching bag.

Our daughter.

God, sometimes, I still can’t believe that this is my life.

That Indy is my wife.

That my days are filled with her smiles and her laughs and I can kiss her, touch her, hold her whenever I want to.

She is my own personal Cindy Lou Who. She brightens this Grinch’s life and fills his heart with nothing but love. Hell, she has the power to turn this normally jaded, broody artist into a fucking heart-eyes emoji.

And fuck, I wouldn’t change it for the world.

I peek out from the bathroom and watch as my wife flops herself onto our bed on a sigh.

“Tired?” I ask, and my ears are graced with another sigh.

“You have no idea.”

“How did it go today?”

“Really good,” she answers and grabs her pregnancy pillow from the edge of the bed. Once she’s content with her position—on her side with the pillow beneath her belly and between her legs—she closes her eyes and snuggles further into the bed. “But I’m exhausted and ready for a nap.”

“Did you eat lunch already?”

“No.” She groans but doesn’t even bother opening her eyes. “I need to, but hells bells, the idea of getting out of the bed and walking back downstairs sounds miserable.”

“How about I bring you something up?” I grin and finish drying my hair with the towel in my hands. “A little lunch in bed.”