Adore (Spiral of Bliss #4)

by Nina Lane

  He and I have struggled with dry spells before, but not for longer than a few months. This one seems to have been going on for two years.

  And my husband does look like Archer. Heck, my husband is a zillion times hotter and sexier. And still, even when he’s thrusting inside me and murmuring dirty things in my ear… I start thinking of daycare payments.

  Really, Liv?

  I need to do something more than just get my groove back.

  I turn to pack up the snack containers. Archer runs around with Nicholas and a few of the other kids, much to both their and their mothers’ pleasure.

  If these other women can manage to take vacations alone with their husbands, why can’t I? Schedules are certainly adjustable. But though I love the idea of Dean and I going on a trip alone together, I can’t prevent a nagging worry. If we’re alone in a hotel room, there’s some serious pressure to get uninhibited and raw.

  Which would obviously be the point and, under the right circumstances, I’d be all in. But now I can just picture myself gorging on an expensive, room-service meal that I didn’t have to cook and then falling facedown on a huge, feather-soft bed to sleep for eight hours straight.

  Leaving my husband to his own devices. Again.

  But what if I don’t tell him about it at all? That would give me even more motivation—I could plan a hot, romantic trip just for the two of us and surprise him with it. How incredible would that be?

  Ideas start sparking in my mind. I’ll buy new lingerie, get a mani/pedi, maybe a new haircut. I’ll study the 31 Days of Hot Sex website for new ideas, read some smutty novels. Heck, I might even check out a couple of dirty movies.

  If I follow the Dean West belief that a plan is the bedrock of every action, then I should be raring to go by the time we close the hotel room door.

  That’s it! That’s the answer. It has to be.

  As Archer returns with a giggling Nicholas slung over his shoulder, I think I should have found—or at least looked for—the answer sooner.

  Maybe if I had, Dean wouldn’t have turned his attention to work so much over the past few years. And maybe he wouldn’t be facing the lure of a fancy, international job that feels like it might suddenly be my new competition.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ‡

  OLIVIA

  After we get Nicholas buckled into the car seat in Archer’s truck, I direct him to the furniture warehouse where we load a bunch of old wooden dining chairs, a rocking chair, and an Adirondack chair into the back of the truck. Then we head over to an industrial area of town, one populated by junkyards and manufacturing buildings. He parks near a warehouse whose parking lot is lined with trucks and vans.

  The side door opens, and Kelsey strides out. In contrast to her usual professional attire of a tailored suit and silk shirt, she’s wearing jeans and a tank top smudged with dirt.

  She smiles as she greets us, but a faint awkwardness crackles between her and Archer. Archer unbuckles Nicholas from his car seat and hefts him into his arms.

  “What’s up with the chairs?” Kelsey asks, nodding to the truck bed.

  I explain about the auction as we walk around to the back of the warehouse.

  “I’m recruiting both of you to paint chairs,” I tell her and Archer. “Kelsey, you could do a weather-themed chair or maybe one based on Russian egg painting designs. And, Archer, what about a superhero theme or a Blue chair?”

  Tension winds through the air at my mention of Blue, the superheroine Archer created after he and Kelsey met. Based on Kelsey, Blue is a fierce, powerful character who derives her power from the forces of weather and uses tornadoes to defeat her enemies.

  “He can’t paint a Blue chair,” Kelsey mutters. “Blue is private.”

  “Blue is fearless,” Archer says, shooting her a pointed look.

  Kelsey’s mouth tightens. Their gazes clash, like sword blades striking. I suddenly wonder what I’ve started with my innocent remark about chairs.

  “Yeah, I’ll paint a chair, Liv,” Archer tells me.

  “He’s not painting Blue,” Kelsey says, her gaze still on Archer. “Blue is mine.”

  “Blue is mine, storm girl.” Archer shakes his head and strides ahead of us. “You know it. Now you just have to admit it.”

  Good heavens. With their strong personalities, Kelsey and Archer still often clash, but I have no idea why a comic-book character is a source of tension. I wait until Archer is a distance away before I lean closer to Kelsey.

  “What was that all about?” I whisper.

  “Him being a stubborn ass.”

  “Dean mentioned something was going on with you two, but he didn’t elaborate.”

  Kelsey sighs. “Did Dean push you to get married?”

  I blink. “He didn’t have to push me. I wanted to marry him.”

  I don’t think I’d wanted anything more in my life than to marry Dean West. Not even the love and attention of my mother.

  “Does Archer want to marry you?” I ask Kelsey.

  “You don’t have to sound surprised.”

  “I’m not. I mean, I’m surprised he didn’t want to before now. You’ve been together for two years, right? You’re living together, you work together, you love each other. What’s left to do but get married?”

  “Why does that have to be the goal?” Kelsey replies curtly, running a hand through her blue-streaked hair. “It’s so good the way it is, you know? Why change it now?”

  Exactly.

  The word pops unexpectedly into my head. Kelsey has always been such a no-bullshit friend—a risk-taker, the woman who went up against the male-dominated meteorology department in order to get her Spiral Project funded. And she succeeded. She drives right into storms and tornados. So it doesn’t make much sense that marriage would be the one thing Kelsey March doesn’t want to face.

  On the other hand, I can certainly relate to her desire to keep things as they are. Because when it’s so good, why risk change?

  “Hey, Liv, this is Roger Jameson.” Archer approaches with a thin, balding man who extends his hand to me.

  “Liv West.” I shake his hand before looking past him to the food truck that has a faded burger logo and milkshake painted on the side. “Is that it?”

  “Needs work, but it’s got a burner stove and prep space.” Roger pulls open the door, and I go inside. “Plenty of storage space.”

  The scent of grease hangs in the air. I look at the rusted fixtures, the old propane tank, and try to envision Allie and I working here. If we fixed the truck up, we could run a mobile unit of the Wonderland Café, serving a limited selection of our menu.

  But that’s not all we want to do. Last year, we talked about the idea of a birthday party truck where we could bring themed parties to children’s homes—including the decorations, costumes for kids, character actors, all the party supplies and food. A turnkey party, delivered right to your front door.

  I shake my head. “I’m sorry, but this isn’t quite right. We want to be able to serve food, but we need more than a kitchen in a truck.”

  As we step outside, I notice an old, silver trailer parked in a corner of the lot overgrown with grass and weeds. The shell is dented and rusty, the metal tarnished, the windows cracked.

  “Whose is that?” I asked.

  “The silver Twinkie?” Roger glances toward the trailer and laughs. “That’s an old ’72 Airstream. Used to belong to my father-in-law. Hasn’t been used in years.”

  “Can I see it?” I ask. “Is it for sale?”

  Roger shrugs. “I never really thought about it, to be honest. Didn’t imagine anyone would want to put the time and money into it.”

  We walk toward the Airstream—and even though it looks like a huge, old piece of metal pipe, I have a flash of what it could be. A sleek, shiny vehicle emblazoned with the Wonderland Café logo.

  We go inside. The interior is a mess of scarred furnishings and torn carpet, but I can see it as a delightful miniature version of the café, with a ch
eckerboard floor, striped curtains, whimsical clocks, and mismatched, cushy furniture.

  We’d have Alice in Wonderland murals on the walls and ceilings, teacup-shaped tables, and teapot lamps. We could set up a red-and-white striped awning outside, with table and chairs for the party-goers. If we had a trailer like this, we could even host birthday parties at parks and gardens.

  “The shell is good,” Roger remarks. “You’d probably have to gut the interior. Exterior work too, of course. I can look into a price, if you’re interested.”

  “I might be.”

  I feel Archer looking at me as we walk back outside.

  “You’d need another truck to pull it,” he warns me. “And the restoration would cost more than the sale.”

  Though I know he’s right, I take a few pictures of the Airstream with my phone and send them to Allie. The whole project will likely be more than we can afford, but the vision is in my head now, crystal-clear. Once upon a time, my decorating ideas were limited to a two-bedroom apartment, but since Allie and I revived and opened the café, and Dean and I restored the Butterfly House, projects like this are exciting rather than intimidating.

  After Roger tells me he’ll also ask around about a used pickup, he and Archer start talking about motorcycles. Kelsey and I return to the truck with Nicholas.

  “Will you be around on Memorial Day weekend?” I ask her, as I get Nicholas situated in his car seat again.

  “Yeah, why?”

  “I’m planning a surprise getaway for Dean,” I explain. “With him being gone so much, and all our work, we haven’t gone away together in ages. I figure it’s about time, so I want to surprise him with a weekend trip. Can you and Archer take care of Nicholas?”

  “Of course. Archer has been wanting to take him over to that miniature train show in Forest Grove, so we’ll do that when you guys are gone.”

  I smile and thank her. Though I experience the usual Mom Guilt about leaving our son in the care of other people, even Archer and Kelsey, I console myself with the reminder that not once in over two years have Dean and I been away from Nicholas at the same time.

  In fact, I’ve never been away from him at all—Dean has gone on trips and to conferences, but I’ve always stayed home. Surely I don’t need to feel guilty for planning to spend a few nights away from Nicholas for the first time in two years.

  And I try not to think about the stark reality that something could potentially happen to him while we’re gone. Of course, it won’t, and he’ll be fine, but…

  But nothing. He’ll be fine.

  Archer drives me and Nicholas back to the Butterfly House. I sort through the day’s mail while Nicholas plays with his fire trucks. At the bottom of the stack, there’s a postcard addressed to me, the postmark and stamp from Sri Lanka. Scrawled, slanted handwriting covers the card:

  Liv,

  Mangroves, lagoons, tea plantations, Temple of the Sacred Tooth, gilded rooftops, stilt fishing, elephant sanctuaries, sunsets like crayons exploded in the sky.

  My adventure continues.

  North

  I read the card over a few times, the simple words evoking bright, vivid pictures. For two years, my friend North has been traveling around the world with nothing but a walking stick, his backpack, and his uncanny sense of understanding.

  “Going on walkabout,” he’d told me when we’d spoken on the phone shortly after Nicholas was born. “See what I can see. Do what I can do.”

  I’d been surprised and baffled—even when I’d first met North, I’d thought he would never leave Twelve Oaks. He was such a part of the place, like a tree whose roots twined deep and secure into the California earth.

  But he’d uprooted himself, shaken off the dirt, and left Twelve Oaks after twenty years to tour the world. Over the past two years, I’d received postcards from Japan, India, Poland, Brazil, China, Tanzania, South Africa, Australia. Always a list of places, people, sites, and food that made the country come to life.

  I put the postcard in the kitchen drawer where I keep all of North’s postcards. I don’t know if he plans to return to Twelve Oaks, but one day, somehow he and Dean will finally meet—the two men who proved to me, who still prove, there is such intense good in the world.

  They’ve always been linked by an everlasting, invisible thread—the man who put me on a path that led to my husband. And one day North will meet Nicholas, the boy who changed every cell in my body. All loves of my life in such profoundly unique ways.

  After getting dinner prepped, I sit at the kitchen table with my laptop. I make reservations at a hotel in Madison and the lodge in Door County where Dean and I used to stay often. I make a list of Things to Do, though I expect we’ll follow it loosely since the whole point of this trip is to relax and have fun. Lots of hot, spicy fun.

  The more I plan, the more excited I get. I picture Dean and me walking hand-in-hand down State Street, stopping to explore the shops and used bookstores before going to a café for a leisurely coffee. I see us strolling through the botanical gardens, eating dinners in intimate restaurants, candlelight and shadows, and then returning to our hotel room for bubble baths, massages, and plenty of sex that’s both raw and romantic.

  Exactly what we’d had during our first year together, when we’d lived in a lovely, intense world that belonged to us alone. I can’t wait to give that world back to my husband and to remind him how perfect we can be together.

  CHAPTER SIX

  ‡

  DEAN

  Paris. United Nations. Cultural heritage. Conservation. Assistant director. Chartres Cathedral. Durham Castle. Fontainebleau. Speyer Cathedral. Rhodes. The monuments of Ravenna.

  I did my master’s degree work in the city of Ravenna. That was when I knew I wanted to be a historian—despite my father’s decree that I should go to law school and follow in his footsteps.

  Instead I’ve spent my career following the footsteps of countless people into the past. I’ve studied the minutiae of their lives—coins, paintings, tools, manuscripts—to discover their secrets. I’ve measured their cathedrals and translated their poems. I’ve unearthed their pottery and mapped the layout of their castles.

  And while I’ve always worked hard to be the best at whatever I’ve done—a drive instilled in me when I was a kid—I never considered the possibility that being a great medieval historian could lead me to a diplomatic position with a worldwide organization.

  Spring rain sleets outside the window of my campus office, rivulets of water spilling over the glass. I work a loop of string between my fingers, creating a geometric pattern of triangles and squares.

  I could end up working for an international organization, I remind myself. But I won’t. Despite the many fascinating aspects of the job, not to mention the intellectual and professional challenges and the fact that it would secure my career on an entirely new level, I can’t pursue it. Even if part of me wants to.

  I unwind the string from my fingers and drop it onto the desk, turning to my computer. After pushing thoughts of UNESCO and the World Heritage Center out of my mind, I spend the next hour working on a paper about medieval guildhalls.

  My phone buzzes. An image of a busty, sexy French maid shows up on the screen, with Liv’s face pasted over the model’s.

  I dial her number.

  “Yes?” Her voice is sultry and low.

  “Nice picture,” I tell her. “But your body is far superior.”

  “Well, I haven’t yet found a French maid costume that would fit well.” She heaves a sigh. “I think I need to buy all new lingerie.”

  “You don’t need lingerie to turn me on.”

  “I’m trying to give life to your fantasies, professor,” Liv says.

  “You’re already my fantasy come to life.”

  “Oh, for Lord’s sake.” Liv groans. “Would you work with me here? Do you understand that I am willing to act out your hottest fantasy? I’ll be a cheerleader, a stripper, a policewoman… hell, I’ll be a hooker, if that’s what it t
akes. The deal is you have to tell me what your fantasy is first.”

  I know she’s expecting some elaborate scenario. When Liv fantasizes, she dreams up entire worlds involving pirate captains and their prisoners, or battles between fairies and elves. I, on the other hand, just picture her spread open in front of me, gasping and moaning as I pound my cock into her sweet, warm pussy.

  “Dean?” she prompts. “Tell me.”

  Though this is not my strong suit, it’s a measure of how much I love my wife—and how badly I want our explosive sex life back—that I give it a shot. At this point, I’m willing to try anything.

  “What if it’s not so much who you are,” I say, lowering my voice an octave, “as where you are?”

  “Oh.” Her breath catches with a little gasping noise that makes my blood burn. “You mean like a spaceship or something? Am I your alien princess sex slave?”

  Where does she come up with these?

  “No,” I admit. “But I like the princess idea.”

  Not to mention the sex slave.

  “You’ve seriously never thought of that before?” Liv asks.

  I must have the imagination of a doormat, because the answer is no.

  “Not once in your entire sexual history have you ever acted out your fantasies with a girlfriend?” Liv asks.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Then what have you done?”

  “I can’t remember.”

  “You lie like a rug.”

  I glance at the door, which is closed but not locked. Because I’m not stupid, I go to lock it before returning to my desk.

  “Where are you?” I ask Liv.

  “Home and on the sofa,” she replies. “Nicholas is napping, and of course he could wake any second so I’d suggest you don’t risk anything by stalling.”