If dancing with Rosa is how he’ll get his kicks tonight, I say let him have at it.
I won’t berate him in front of all our family and guests and start the rumor mill going that my new wife has barely been here a day and is already causing a rift between us.
I do, however, wonder what her motives are, though.
She doesn’t look the type to be easily seduced by a pretty face.
And she also doesn’t look dumb enough to try and purposely embarrass me in front of my men.
Which leaves me to think this is her manipulative way of paying me back.
Either because she’s still licking her wounds at my lack of presence before our wedding, or because I was less than welcoming on our drive to the reception hall. Whatever the reason, if she thought that accepting Shay’s offer to dance would somehow upset me or put me in my place, she has another thing coming.
When they are both at the very center of the dancefloor, Shay nods over to the DJ and a Spanish ballad begins to play through the speakers. Rosa’s eyes lift up to my brother in unspoken gratitude, to which he smiles back almost dotingly. He then places a respectful hand carefully on her lower back, while the other clasps her hand. They start to waltz around the dancefloor, seemingly uncaring that every pair of eyes in this room are on them, and like everyone else, I study their interaction down to a T.
Shay is just being Shay, putting on a show, but Rosa looks stiff as a board while my brother leads her in the dance. When her gaze constantly lowers, unwilling to meet anyone’s eyes, it’s blatantly apparent that she’s uncomfortable with the attention they are getting. When she looks at her feet for the third time in as many minutes, my brother takes his hand off her back and tilts her chin up to look at him.
“Just keep your eyes on me,” I watch him mouth to her.
The gesture is supposed to be comforting, Shay’s way of putting my bride at ease, but from the outside looking in, it looks intimate.
Almost as if he cares.
Hmm.
Maybe Colin wasn’t so off-base after all.
Maybe I should put a stop to this.
Although, I can’t blame my brother for wanting to use any excuse in the book to touch my wife.
The fates must have had a hell of a laugh at my expense when my father picked Rosa’s name out of the dreadful fruit bowl ten years ago. The fact that she is a Hernandez was my first cause for concern, but when she stepped into the Holy Cross Cathedral earlier today, I knew in that instant she was going to be more trouble than she was worth.
I’m not a man that is known for getting caught off guard in regards to anything.
I’m always prepared for any and all eventualities.
But I have to admit, even I wasn’t expecting her.
Not that there was any way I could have prepared myself either.
A few months after that horrid day in Bermuda, I succumbed to my curiosity and looked Rosa up online. I just wanted a glimpse of her, nothing more. Just a face to put to the name. However, her father, Miguel, had been careful and ensured that not one picture of his daughter could be found, leaving her existence limited to just a name online. And as the years passed and our deadline to marry approached, my curiosity about my future wife waned.
Somewhere along the way, I had made the decision that’s exactly how Rosa Hernandez would remain.
Just a name.
First online.
Now a scribbled signature on a wedding certificate and nothing more.
I had no intention of giving Rosa more importance than that. I’d give her my protection, set her up in some lavish brownstone in Beacon Hill, and forget she existed after that.
But then I lifted that fucking veil.
I wasn’t expecting her to be so fucking breathtaking.
Large brown doe eyes looked up at me, and suddenly every intention I had went out the window. I’m still not sure what I’m going to do with her, but keeping her secluded and away from my sight doesn’t seem as appealing to me as it once did.
Beautiful.
That’s the word Colin used to describe her.
I should have known that my cousin’s limited vocabulary could never do her justice.
My wife is so much more than that small word.
She’s devastating.
An exotic flower plucked from her homeland and gifted to me on a silver platter to do whatever I want with. I could pluck out her petals, one by one. I could cut out her thorns and leave her defenseless. I could crush her in the palm of my hand if I so wished. Or I can nurture her and stand back to watch her blossom.
Such a frail thing to be put in my ungodly hands.
But as I watch her cheeks tinge a pretty shade of red, and her cupid-bow lips part for breath while her gaze remains fixed on my brother’s, the sudden need to remind her that I’m the one who is the master of her fate violently springs free from my chest.