Kira. Who was now my wife.
No, not for real. Shut up. Stop repeating that to yourself.
She'd been a little spitfire yesterday. This morning, she'd been meek and subdued, except for the way she'd laughed at the chaste kiss I'd given her, heating my blood in front of God and our court-appointed witness, and provoking me—knowingly or not—to kiss her again in a way that was anything but platonic.
She had grown up in the very lap of luxury and yet she'd spent half a day (Charlotte had told me) scrubbing out what must have been a disgusting bathroom in that little cottage and was now living there. She was an enigma. I couldn't figure her out, and I didn't have the time or the inclination to try. And yet, for some inane reason, I had trouble resisting the allure of meeting the challenges she dished out, trouble resisting the desire to make that fire flash in her eyes. I craved it. The way she looked when she flew into a rage—her cheeks flushed, her eyes smoldering and filled with indignation . . . She kept me constantly off balance and for the life of me, I couldn't figure out why I liked it so much. That's why I'd teased her with that stupid list of hers and things had gone downhill from there.
And now we were married. Till divorce do us part.
I turned to go back into the house when I heard what sounded like voices coming from . . . above me? I frowned, turning and squinting up at the dark sky. No, they were coming from farther over—right at the edge of Kira's cottage. I walked slowly in that direction, confused. "Hello?" I called. The voices stopped, although I thought I heard a small, muffled laugh.
"Who's there?" I said louder. No answer.
"Ouch!" I said, as something small and hard hit my head and more muffled laughter came from above. I looked up. Someone or a few someones were up in the trees. Another acorn made contact with my skull and I grunted. What the hell? "Who's up there?" I repeated angrily. "Come down now before I call the police." There was a silent moment and then I heard what sounded like someone climbing down. A pair of beefy, jean-clad legs appeared first and then Virgil's head came into sight. He hopped down, his head bent as he looked at me nervously.
"What are you doing up in my trees?" I asked incredulously.
"I, um, well, sir, we wanted to see if we could catch a few wishing stars, see . . . Kira and me, we thought . . . "
"Kira?" I asked, just as another pair of legs appeared, these slim and shapely. Kira landed on her feet in front of me, leaves stuck to her and that damn silky hair falling down in disarray around her face. Just like earlier that evening, her cheeks were flushed and she was breathing hard. But this time, she smelled like alcohol. My new wife was climbing trees . . . drunk. I clenched my jaw.
"So . . . you're insane," I declared.
"Well hello, husband," she slurred slightly. "How was your date?"
"My date . . . Kira, do you realize you could have broken your neck and Virgil's neck, too, for that matter? I suppose this was your idea."
Kira glanced at Virgil who looked like he was a little boy who had just been sent to the principal's office.
"It was all my idea, actually," Kira admitted, standing up straight and crossing her arms under her breasts. "Did you know that if you sit in a tree all day, you can watch people to your heart's content? No one ever looks up. It's the most interesting thing."
"Hmm. You have a lot of tree-climbing experience, no doubt."
She tilted and I righted her. "Quite a bit."
"And of course, there's the wishing star thing."
"Well, yes, that. Might as well try, right? No one ever got anywhere by sitting in their cottage in the woods drinking alone on their wedding night." She frowned, as if trying to recall something, perhaps whether the person she was describing was herself.
"In the future, will you please leave my employees out of stunts like this one? I would hate to have to call Virgil's mother and tell her that her son tumbled out of a tree."
"Oh, there wasn't any danger. I mean, very little. Haven't you ever climbed these trees? They're the perfect climbing trees. The," she let out a little hiccup, "branches are so huge and strong and wide. You could sleep on one."
"You're drunk, Kira. If you had tried to sleep on a tree branch, I'd be scraping you off the ground tomorrow."
She laughed as if that was funny. "Seriously, though, surely you've climbed one of these trees?"
"No."
"No?" she whispered. "Why?" She looked at me so seriously, her look as confounded as if I'd just admitted I'd never tried breathing air before.
Without answering, I turned to Virgil who was shifting back and forth on his feet. "You should go on back to your bunk, Virgil."
"Yes, sir," he muttered. He turned to Kira, his face lighting up as if she were the sun and he had just been looking into the darkness. Me being the darkness in this particular circumstance. He gave her the most openly enamored smile I'd ever seen on a grown man and said shyly, "Goodnight, Miss Kira."
Kira grinned back at him and I startled slightly. There it was. That dimple I'd seen in the online photograph. Virgil got the dimple. I'd never gotten the dimple—not even once. And I probably never would, especially after tonight.
"Mrs. Kira," she corrected, winking.
Virgil shot me a look that I swore was suspicious and then nodded at Kira, smiling again as he turned and walked away. I gritted my teeth and turned back to the little witch.