it’s really our thirty-year anniversary to me. I was married to you the day I met you.”
I release my sweet husband and twirl through the room. “It smells like heaven!” I stop when I see our dining table has been set up meticulously for a lavish meal. I whirl around. “I thought we were going out to eat.”
Fish shrugs. “I thought I’d make you a nice dinner here, if that sounds okay.”
Oh, my heart. “Of course.” I hug him again, swooning at his sweetness. This man is so damned thoughtful. And so damned sexy, too. Suddenly, all I want to do is make love to my hot husband. Right now. I turn to the boys, all of whom have settled onto the couch like they plan to stay a while. “Time to go, boys.”
“We’re gonna have a late lunch, Mom.”
“Sorry, no. It’s our anniversary. Time to go.”
Jackson laughs and gets up, but Winston stares at me, dumbfounded. Like he thinks I’m kidding.
“You heard your mother,” Fish says. “The kitchen is closed, son. It’s our anniversary. You’ve gotta get the hell out.”
Jackson and Winston exchange a chuckle before leading Alfie toward the door.
“I’ll see you boys on Friday night!” I chirp. I grab Alfie’s new ukulele and hand it to him. “Practice the song Grandma taught you, love. And, next time, I’ll teach you two more chords.” I address Winston. “I taught him C and G and played him ‘Skip to My Lou.’”
“Got it.”
Fish bends down to our beloved grandson. “Bye, little dude.”
“Bye, Grampa. I’m not little.”
“Sorry.”
“Hey, Uncle Fish,” Jackson says. “You want to surf this week?”
“Any time.”
“As long as it’s not right now, apparently,” Winston murmurs sarcastically.
Bye, bye, bye. Kiss, kiss, kiss. We say all necessary goodbyes, and, finally, Fish closes our front door and turns around, a wicked smile on his handsome face.
“Liar,” I say playfully as he strides toward me. “You didn’t take a nap, did you, Old Man?”
Fish scoffs. “Hell no. I’m strong as a bull, woman. I just needed time to get everything set up for our little anniversary party.”
I kiss him deeply, feeling physically intoxicated by the glorious fragrances floating around me, not to mention his cologne. “You clever man. You know flowers always make me extra horny.”
Fish waggles his eyebrows. “I was counting on it.”
I grab my husband’s hand and pull him upstairs toward our “new” bedroom. The one we built twenty-odd years ago after our son was born. When we get upstairs, I discover it’s also filled with white blooms—various ways to promise forever.
“Oh, Matthew. Thank you.”
We tumble into our large, comfy bed and peel off our clothes. As we’ve done many times before, we kiss and caress, worship and whisper. As my husband licks me into a frenzy, I run my fingers through his hair that’s nowadays streaked with a bit of sexy silver.
I’ve never made love to anyone but my beautiful husband. My eternal love. As crazy as it sounds, I’ve never even kissed anyone else. And I wouldn’t have it any other way. In fact, I’m quite certain if I’d slept with a hundred men before Fish, searching for the perfect man, the perfect lover and best friend, I would have immediately stopped searching the moment I met Fish. Matthew. The same way I actually did. Whether Matthew Fishberger was my first or my hundred-and-first, there’s no doubt I would have known, instantly, he was The One. My one and only. It just so happens I found him first. Lucky me.
When we’re done making love, we lie in each other’s arms, listening to the sounds of the ocean through our bedroom window.
“Are you hungry?” he asks.
“Not really. You?”
“Not really. There’s a bottle of champagne chilling on the balcony. I thought we’d open that bad boy up and watch the sunset.”
“Ooh.”
“After that, whenever you get hungry, I’ll make you the best anniversary meal you’ve ever had.”
“What are you making me?”
“Vegan enchiladas.”
“Patti’s recipe?”
“Of course.”
“Oooh, honey. You spoil me.”
“Oreo pie for dessert.”
“Gah! Best anniversary ever. I got you a present, too. Hang on.” I run to the closet, grab the box, and launch myself onto the bed. “Here you go. It’s not much, but . . .”
Fish unwraps the gift and discovers a little photo album I’ve created commemorating our thirty years together, beginning with the first photo I ever sent him—a picture of me holding the very first bouquet of flowers he’d sent to me in Boston—a stunning spray of red roses.
“Red roses. Not yellow,” he whispers, making me smile. He touches