His Mafia Queen

Domestic Bliss, Part II

RILEY

After buying the bed and arranging for delivery, we go to another luxury home store to purchase sheets and pillows. It's a longer process than I anticipated, mostly because the sales lady seems to know that Gabriel has money and is insistent on showing us every single item in the store.

Since Gabriel is far more picky about his pillow than I am, we decided he'd keep the old ones for him, and I selected two new ones for me.

Without batting an eye, he ordered five sheet sets. I had to check the price tag twice to make sure I wasn't confusing the thread count with the price. Both were higher than anything I'd ever come across.

Since we'd gotten a late start, it was already the end of the day. Gabriel and I walked out of the linen store emptyhanded — they'd agreed to deliver everything next week, closer to when the bed was scheduled to arrive.

Once we were in the car, I turned to him. "What now? I'm getting a little hungry."

He started the car. "I have an idea."

We go down the road a few miles and he pulls into a sandwich shop. It's so different than where Gabriel usually eats —places that have multiple course menus and wines that cost more than my weekly salary at the paper — that I turn to gape at him.

"Sandwiches? That's okay with me, but are you going to like this?"

He plants a kiss on my mouth. "They have the best Italian Sub here in Florida."

"Okay, sounds perfect to me." I shrug and start to get out of the car.

"No, stay here. I'll get what we need."

"Wha..." The word fades as he leaves the car, wearing only a cryptic smile.

He's planning something. But what?

I wait in the car, wondering what Gabriel is up to. He returns shortly with a bag of food and a mischievous glint in his eyes. "I got all the fixings for an Italian feast," he says, pulling containers out of the bag. Marinated artichokes, roasted peppers, fresh mozzarella, and more. My mouth waters.

"Where are we going to eat all this?" I ask.

"You'll see," he replies with a wink.

We drive for a while. A half hour, at least. We're south of the city, possibly in another county. The bodyguard SUV follows us as we speed down a lonely road.

Eventually, we reach a clearing — and a secluded beach.

As Gabriel leads me onto the pristine white sand, I stop and gasp in awe.

Having grown up near chilly Boston-area beaches strewn with rocks and seaweed, I'm always stunned by the dazzling shores of the Florida Gulf coast.

This beach is postcard perfect: finely milled sugar-white sand that almost glitters like diamonds in the fading sunlight.

Gentle electric blue waves crest and fall. Palm trees sway nearby, leaves rustling in the balmy breeze. The tangy scent of saltwater mingles with hints of coconut and sea oats.

I slip off my sandals, wiggling my toes in the warm sand. The water looks irresistible and crystal clear. Gabriel grins knowingly at my reaction. No matter how often I come to the Gulf, the beaches never fail to take my breath away. This secluded stretch of paradise is pure magic.

"You know, I don't think we've ever eaten dinner alone on a beach before," I say to Gabriel, who's toting the food and a blanket. I offer to carry something and he declines.

He leads me down the sand to a private cove. As the sun begins to set, he spreads out the feast and pops open a bottle of wine. He pours the liquid into two plastic cups.