He just saved my life.
“Nowhere, Misery,” he murmurs, lips barely moving. In the distance, Father is barking orders. Security finally reacts, pulls away the thrashing waiter. A few guests gasp, scream, and maybe I should scream, too, but I don’t have the wherewithal to do anything until my husband tells me, “For the next year, let’s make sure to stay out of each other’s way. Understood?”
I try to swallow. Fail the first time, do a great job the second. “And they say romance is dead,” I say, pleased not to sound as dry throated as I feel. He hesitates for a moment, and I could swear he inhales again, deep, storing up . . . something. His hand tightens on my back for a second before finally letting go.
And then Lowe Moreland, my husband, stalks off the dance floor, a trail of forest-green
