Play My Game Read Free

in the mid-sixties, with the forecast predicting highs in the seventies. I take off my shoes, and Damien does the same, and we walk in the surf, where the water is frigid no matter what the season.
    We hold hands and talk about everything and nothing as we walk home. “Hard to believe we’re already into the second week of February,” I say, thinking that we’ve just come back from our honeymoon and now it’s almost Valentine’s Day. I feel a bit like a kid whose birthday is the week before Christmas. “I wasn’t even thinking about the timing when we picked our wedding day.”
    “You mean the weather? It’s usually a bit colder this time of year, but it’s always comfortable.”
    I glance sideways at him, wondering if he’s really that clueless. His expression, however, is entirely unreadable.
    “I just meant—” I cut myself off, frustrated.
    His brow furrows. “What?”
    Communication
, I think.
Marriage is all about communication.
    “I was just thinking that our first Valentine’s Day is almost here.”
    “Not even close,” he says.
    “Um, less than a week. That’s right around the corner.”
    I don’t realize that he’s stopped until I’ve gone a few more steps. I turn back. Damien actually looks a little worried, and I confess I’m surprised. This will be our first Valentine’s Day together, and knowing Damien and romance, I’d anticipated him doing it up big. I tell myself it’s stupid to get my feelings hurt, especially since there’s a week to go, and Damien could pull off amazing with only five minutes’ notice.
    Still, I can’t help feeling disappointed. Which is completely and totally unfair, but there you go.
    I draw in a breath and plaster on one of my best pageant smiles. “Actually, you’re right,” I say. “As far as you and I are concerned, a week is practically a lifetime.”
    “Nikki. Come here.” His voice is low and apologetic, and I keep my face bland because now I am certain that he forgot. He just … forgot.
    People forget things, though, right? Even newlyweds.
    Even Damien Stark.
    I move into his arms, in part because he asked me to, but also because I want to be close enough to him that if I tilt my head down he won’t see the stupid, foolish, idiotic tears that are starting to well in my eyes.
    He slides his hands over my arms, moving them until I’m cupping his ass—along with the small, square box tucked into his back pocket.
    “Take it out.” His voice is firm, but I think I hear a faint hint of amusement.
    I blink, then do as he asks. It’s a small, white cardboard box, the kind that department stores use to package jewelry. Confused, I look up at Damien, and I no longer wonder if he’s amused. It’s very clear that he is.
    “Open it.”
    I’m starting to feel very foolish, but I do as he asks and gently tug off the lid to reveal a necklace on which hangs a tiny glass bottle. Inside the bottle is a rolled up piece of paper.
    I look up at Damien, confused. “It’s lovely.”
    “Take out the scroll.”
    “Really?” I don’t wait for his reply, but use my fingernails to pull out the tiny cork. The paper is harder to get out, but Damien fishes a little army knife out of his front pocket, then passes the tiny pair of tweezers to me. I realize as he does that he’d brought the knife in anticipation of this moment.
    Even with the tweezers, it takes some skill to fish out the paper. I finally manage, though, and I unscroll it, then squint at the tiny writing.
    For my wife for Valentine’s Day,
    A proposition, if I may—
    Three clues for you,
    You know what to do—
    And if you want your present to claim,
    You’re going to have to play my game
    Now here’s the clue that I speak of:
    Tell me, darling Nikki, what is sweeter than Love?
    “Damien.” My voice is soft, muted by the happy, astounded tears that have clogged my throat.
    “I can’t claim to be a poet,” Damien says, though I think the poem is charming, and all the more wonderful