I was reminiscing of the early days with Jace as we left the reception. How we were constantly fighting and of course making up with some rough sex. Maybe Roberto was right about the Stockholm syndrome thing because if someone had told me four years ago that I'd be sitting on a private jet with Jace Romano, not as his collateral, not as his reluctant bride, but as his wife who actually couldn't stop smiling at the sight of him, I would've laughed in their face.
Yet here I was, barefoot on a cream-colored carpet, wrapped in a cashmere blanket, watching my husband pour champagne with the softest smile on his lips.
He had refused to tell me where we were going.
"It's a surprise," he'd said with that maddening calmness that somehow always made my pulse quicken.
"Do I get a hint?" I asked for maybe the tenth time as he handed me a glass.
He shook his head, the corners of his mouth twitching. "Not a chance."
"Not even a little one?" I pouted.
