Shopping wasn't supposed to feel like a covert operation, but with my husband's hand resting on the small of my back as if the entire city was out to get me, it always did.
"Jace," I said, trying not to laugh as I looked up at him, "you do realize this is just a store, right? Not an ambush."
He didn't even blink. "Stores have people."
"People who buy clothes," I said dryly, tugging on his arm.
"People who stare at you," he countered, voice low, eyes flicking briefly toward the group of women near the window who clearly recognized him. Or maybe me. We had both learned that being a Romano drew attention even when we weren't trying.
He adjusted his sunglasses and followed me deeper into the store.
It was a boutique downtown, small and tastefully quiet, the kind that smelled faintly of roses and money. A far cry from the crowded malls I used to wander through years ago, but I loved it here. I loved the calm, the low hum of music, the freedom to breathe.
