We don’t get back to the London Orb hotel suites until 4AM. That’s because in big cities all over Europe our stage time never starts before midnight. It’s the way it is here.

Dinner restaurants serve starting around nine, night clubs only really get hopping at midnight, because no one would dare go outside before 10PM. And, as my PR people assure us, a band like Guarderobe would never insult the culture and play one riff before 12:30 AM.

I’ve been told Robin arrived during the concert, but as I make my way into our suite and kick my shoes off, the only sign of her I can find is a pair of leather sandals with long thin straps that Robin must have left by the door.

Without thinking I pick one up and turn it over, pondering just how much smaller her foot is than mine. Pondering more how I can tell that these sandals look new, yet they’re also slightly worn in this way that says she’s had a whole bunch of adventures in these sandals.

Adventures that I’ve missed.

I smile when I pull open the entryway closet to hang up my leather jacket next to this very cute, very feminine light-blue rain coat with a long belt that also has to be hers.

Desperate to see her now, I almost sprint across the suite toward the bedroom, hoping she’s still awake. As I get closer I swear I can smell a whiff of her lavender scent in the air.

I quietly open the bedroom door, and yes! She’s there, but she’s sound asleep.

My own breathing goes deeper, gets calmer maybe, as I tip toe to the bed, taking in her moon shaped face snuggled into one of the pillows that’s so big it makes her look even punier than usual.

She’s so beautiful when she sleeps, and I’ve honestly missed her so much—as much as I missed my mom after she died—that I almost touch her to see if she’s real.

I want to hear her say that she’s safe, that her brother is happy and that despite me being stuck in the middle of her life, that things have turned out exactly how she wanted.

Has she been able to relax some now that all of the paperwork has come through? And even though it’s not real and our marriage is in name only, most of all I want her to wake up and ask questions about what we’re going to do in London tomorrow. Because if she does, then that means she wants to hang out and that somehow she’s still a little bit…mine.

Mine for a little while longer.

My wife, Robin.

I open the curtain a crack so I can see her better and have to smile because she’s worn her giant hoodie to bed. She started doing that around the second time she woke up wrapped up in my arms. The first time that happened was in the hammock at our honeymoon.

The second time, was in the extra-large king sized bed inside of our honeymoon suite despite the pillow tower we’d made to separate us from each other.

The third time, it was also in our honeymoon suite, but that third time was when she showed up with the hoodie she’s wearing now.

I’d laughed, telling her she’d be too hot, and that I didn’t mind that she was a chronic cuddle-addict. She was adamant that the hoodie would act as a wall or some sort of physical boundary between us if the pillows failed. We also agreed to tell anyone who might question her odd pajama choice, that Robin was simply freezing cold all of the time, so she loved to wear hoodies to bed.

To help her out and to be fair (and in case I can’t contain myself) I started wearing the provided hotel bathrobes to bed as well.

We’ve had no problems convincing people that our wedding was consummated, and then some. The press, of course, instantly made up lies about us that we have never refuted thanks to the nearly naked toga photos that were taken of us. In one of our ‘honeymoon expose’ articles, some reporter had written that I sleep in the nude and that Robin does as well!

As far as I know, underneath that hoodie, Robin could be dressed in something like chain mail. Hell, I actually hope it’s true because I need all of the help I can get here. I’ve promised her, myself, my family, and God himself that I won’t take advantage of this situation, or of her. And every time I see the hoodie, I fight a war with myself to try to forget every silken curve I know exists under that thing.

Keyword, try.

Second keyword, fail.

Despite the utter physical pain and mental torment those things I can’t forget about Robin have caused me, tonight just like all of the others, I don’t care. I’m just excited that she and I are back to sharing a room and a bed. All I want to do is hold this sweet girl in my arms, match my breathing to hers, and watch her sleep. When I left NYC and had to go to Taiwan I’d grown so used to her being there, breathing in and out near me, that I’ve had to resort to taking sleeping pills for the past weeks.

Back in New York there was a couch in our bedroom, so I (against my will) took the damn couch. All of that worked, because she was right there across the room, breathing away feeding my new-found addiction to her. But I’m not going to lie, I’ve been really looking forward the hotels we’re going to have to share over these next few weeks. European spaces and hotels are different than those in the United States. They’re much smaller, even in full luxury suites like this one, there’s only room for one small sitting area.

In France, the city of love, as people call it, the bedroom is only for a bed. No one would think to place a sofa the size someone could sleep on in a bedroom in France. They have ‘salons’ for that. They did invent the chaise lounge, a half couch half chair thing that’s often put into the hotel rooms, but that piece of furniture is way too small for sleeping.

I know this was Robin’s first flight over the ocean, and all day I’ve been regretting what I missed not being with her on that exact plane. What did her face look like as she peered out of the window? Was she nervous? What did she eat on the plane? Drink? In the airspace on the way to Paris there is no drinking age, because it’s not the USA anymore. Did she taste the Champagne they always pass out with dinner?

It’s also her first trip to the UK. How wide did her eyes get as she drove in the limousine on the way to this hotel? Has she glimpsed Big Ben yet, or did they save that for me? What else has she seen, and will I have time to show her around London how I want? Based on what she’s told me about how little she’s traveled, I bet she’s never even been on a subway before. But can I even taker on a subway without creating mayhem and chaos on the London Underground?

At least I will get to sit next to her on our flight to Paris. I also know that even more than London, Paris is the city Robin craves to see. It’s the one with the art galleries and museums she has dreamed about for her entire life, and I seek solace in all that I’ve missed in her life because I know I will be the one who gets to show her the Eiffel Tower for the first time.

Smiling now, and noting how my heart has grown so light I hardly feel tired at all anymore because I’m so happy to see her, I tip-toe into the slick, hipster-minimalist bathroom that matches the rest of my suite to brush my teeth. Cool, modern and sleek is the trademark decor of the entire Orb Hotel, London. It’s all grey and white marble, black furniture and shocking pink Orchids with window seats and empty book shelves. It’s a pretty style, but not at all my favorite, because if you leave just one thing lying around, the entire place feels messy.

I grab my toothbrush out of the slick black marble toothbrush holder, brush my teeth, wash my face, and head into the back closet to slip on the hotel-issue silk pajama pants. Then, even though it’s hot, I add the light weight cotton hotel robe we’d agreed I would wear while she’s wearing the hoodie.

* * *

When I get back into the main bedroom and stare down at her again, my stomach clenches with guilt. I realize I can’t just crawl into bed with her and pull her into my arms how I want.

That’s because we aren’t really married, heck she’s not even my girlfriend officially. It’s quite possible that she’s like…forgotten me or heck, I don’t know, that she will be scared to wake up with me clambering back in her bed with no warning. So, despite how knocked out she looks and how comfortable she looks, I need to wake her up to ask permission to do this.

“Hey,” I whisper, while I crouch down next to her side of the bed and pick up a strand of her hair, leaning in so I can survey her face a little closer. I bite my lower lip and grin at how she’s totally slack-mouthed and out, while I let one of the curls I’ve grabbed coil around my finger. Her beautiful hair has a mind of its own, and I love it so much. “Hey, Robin?” I try speaking louder. “It’s me. Sorry to ask you this but…can you wake up? Can you?”

“Mfrmn.” She rolls toward me and makes this funny little smile like she’s dreaming. “No…the goat’s neck. Only the neck. Wool, okay? Wool,” she murmurs. “Cashmere. Mhm. That’s why it’s extra soft.”

Smiling more now, I call out again, “Robin?” This time lightly running my hand along the edges of where her hair meets her forehead, and then I caress down the round line of her cheek until I have my forefinger twisting again into one of those longer soft blonde curls that are coming off of her ponytail.

My heart thrums with anticipation because I realize how terribly I’ve missed the sound of her voice but I’m completely unprepared for how my spine melts when she turns toward me. Half opens her soft, sleep heavy eyes, licks her lips and smile-mummers my own name up at me, “Royce.” Then. “So good to see you. You don’t have a beard anymore.”

When I don’t—can’t—answer, she blinks herself more awake, eyes finally focusing on my face she adds, “Hi.”

“Hi,” I echo, loving how her voice had come out all scratchy—how she’s staring at my chin with a little question in her eyes. “The beard grows back in a day or less,” I tell her. “We’re still experimenting with my look.”

“Looks nice.” She reaches out and touches the edge of my chin, then pulls her finger away. “Like you’re closer to my age today, instead of some jaded old man. You know?” She smiles directly up at me, while rubbing her eyes.

“I am close to your age, but still very jaded,” I answer, trying to joke and I want to say more, but my reaction to her sleepy-smile has made my body betray me. I’ve just spiked an erection that is so painful and jarring that I have to stand quickly to gain some distance between us before the weight of it sinks me to the ground! Because if I don’t, I’m going to kiss that smile off her lips and I’m not going to want to stop.

Unaware of my torment, she sits up on her elbow and my eyes involuntarily track the blonde waterfall of curls slipping out of her ponytail while she meets my eyes with more of her wide-open-blue happiness. Then she says all the wrong things, like: “Hey. Come back. Are you coming to bed? If so, yay. If not, what are you doing?”

At that point, I’m running from her back to the bathroom.

“Thirsty. Forgot to—brush my teeth,” I lie. Then I lie some more. “And I forgot my glass of water. You want one? After you fly you should drink a lot of water,” I leave the door cracked like it’s not big thing me being in here holding up my shaking legs by leaning on the marble bathroom countertop.

Thankfully, she can’t see me or my face from where she’s lying, because when I look at my reflection and stare into my own eyes, I realize I’ve melted.

Heart. Body. Soul. Now, unrecognizable.

“Sure. Yes. Thanks. Water sounds great.” She yawns loudly while I crank on the faucet then all but shove my head under the stream of ice cold water, working so hard to erase the sound of her voice asking: Are you coming to bed…are you coming to bed? Yay. Yay. Yay.

I stand at the sink, looking at myself in the mirror, wondering what she’d think if she could see my face right now. Could she read the red-hot desire behind my eyes? Will she notice how I’m having a difficult time controlling myself under this bathrobe?

Damn, me. Think about something to take your mind off of her sleepy-sexy. Think about her damn dad.

Dad. Dad. Dad.

Tightening the belt on the robe, I run the faucet and soak a washcloth into the sink then place it along the back of my neck, squeezing it some so droplets of cold water attack my spine while I call out, “I had to wake you because I didn’t want to scare you by just climbing in bed with you, and, yes, I’m tired so…sorry if I seem all distracted and scattered.” I’m amazed my voice came out steady, because listening to the cute sound of her yawning again has wrecked me a second time.

I can tell by the sounds she’s making she’s moving the bed covers around. After the honeymoon, and having had to share a few hotel room beds with her already, I’m certain she’s setting up the prerequisite wall of pillows.

“I’m glad you woke me because I—um. I mean.” She pauses for a long time. “Can I say that I missed you? Is that okay?” She says the last question all quiet, breathlessly—as though maybe she regrets uttering them, and my chest swells because—did she just say she missed me?

I want to kiss her. If only I could…

Unable to respond because the only thing that wants to come out of my mouth is a painful groan, I re-cool the washcloth and slap it over my whole face, wondering if she would think it strange if I brought this to bed with me.

Maybe I could fake a headache. Sleep with this thing over my whole face so I don’t have to look at her or better, maybe I can figure out a way to ice it double and tie it below my waist.

“Anyhow…uh…how was the concert?” she adds, but now she’s the one with the wavering voice like she feels awkward that I didn’t say anything after she said she missed me.

Yep. She’s regretting her words.

Quickly I clank down a glass and make sure it’s really loud against the marble countertop while finally turn the faucet off. “I missed you, too, Robin. So much.” I call out extra clearly, noting that it feels amazing to say it. “Sorry for the delayed response. Was flossing. Show was great. London is one of our favorites.”

She’s muttering something but I can’t hear it while I splash cold water down my front, trying to get control of my body while lecturing myself that it’s my job to pull the awkward out of this endlessly awkward situation.

I have to regroup and make her feel like this extraordinary situation, of her flying into my hotel rooms, is simply ordinary because this is going to be our new normal.

She and I got used to each other and how this marriage was supposed to work back in New York City, but how this tour portion is going to go is all uncharted territory, and aside from her being inside of it, it’s not new to me, but all is foreign to her, so I’m the one who needs to step-the-hell-up.

I ditch the washcloth and fill two glasses of water, but as I turn I catch my look in the mirror, I almost laugh at myself, because my expression, arms and my back are so stiff it’s like I’m the fucking Tin Man from The Wizard of Oz. One who’s holding water glasses like they’re a body shield.

I breathe in and drop my shoulders and arms so they look normal and seek solace in the idea that if something goes wrong I can dump both of these water glasses on myself if needed. Bending each leg a couple of times, so I stop walking like my knees don’t bend, I step back out into the room, determined to make her feel comfortable.

Walking gingerly around the room I busy myself with setting each of our water glasses on our bedside tables, then I pace the room, pausing as though I want to look at the view. Then, like I’m trying to help her, I yank a couple of the square decorator pillows off the chaise by the window and walk to the bed.

When she’s turned away to sip some of her water, I quickly dive under the comforter and get myself to the furthest part of my side of the bed. My motion has made her startle, and I feel bad watching her quickly scoot to the furthest edge away from me on her side.

Like it’s no big deal I add my pillows to the top of her fortress and work to not stare at her sleepy-cute face, or notice her form under the sheets as I peek over the pillow-mountain.

“Like the Great Wall of China, tonight,” I say, trying to joke a little, noting how her hair seems twice as bright as I remember it. That, or she’s been in the sun since we’ve been apart from each other and it’s lightened up because, yes…her cute face is completely tanned now. Which has me wondering if her body is also…

I pull back, screaming at myself inside my head: No. No. Don’t think about her body.

“I heard you got to see the Great Wall.” She pats a pillow proudly on her side, popping up so she can see my face this time, adding, “Was it cool?”

Boom. And it’s back. Full throttle. Someone help me.

“Big.” Is all I can say and damn-me, but I am talking about my own boner not the Great Wall of China.

I can’t stop my eyes going to her sweet face. I’d forgotten how fresh she always looks—how the roses in her cheeks never fade—how the bow-shaped curve of her upper lip drives me wild. How, when she bites that lower lip my entire body-and-soul overreact.

“So tell me, why?”

“Why what?” I croak out, panicking. Can she read my mind? Does she want me to answer why my lower body is cracking off, or why her upper lip drives me wild, or why that freshly chewed lower lip will make it so I can’t walk or move for the next hour at least?

“When you were in the bathroom I asked, why is London a favorite of yours?” She moves a couple of pillows away so we can see each other’s faces better, then leans back against her pillows that are backed by the headboard, stretches her arms up high, nestles one forearm under the back of her head, regarding me calmly like she’s not even nervous around me, like she can’t tell I’m about to jump out of my skin.

“Oh.” I blink. Forcing myself to settle back into my own pillow. “We love London because everyone speaks English and so when they sing the hit songs, they really go for it. Nothing feels better or fills my soul than when words we wrote come back to me on thousands of voices. Besides, people in the UK make everything sound better when they talk and sing with that accent. Makes us feel like our songs are twenty percent more classy or something.” Quickly, before she can ask me more questions, I fake-yawn as big as she’s real-yawning. Then I do it again.

I know that despite how tired I might be, until my heart and every drop of blood in my body calms down, and until she stops glancing over at me and smiling at me like she’s—damn her lips—there’s no way in hell I’ll be able to sleep. “Do you think you can go back to sleep?” I croak out, adding in a bit of a cranky-note to my voice, scooting down so I can’t see her very well anymore. “Because I’m so tired.”

“Yes. Sorry,” she says, words tangled into a yawn, misunderstanding me just how I want her to. “We can talk tomorrow because I probably won’t remember any of this anyhow.”

“Me either,” I lie, pleased that she’s not offended, how she really should be by how I’m acting all grumpy. I suddenly want to pull her into my arms and to tell her the truth. Tell her so many things I shouldn’t—about how cool and beautiful she is, about how my heart feels different ever since she married me. About how each day, it’s constantly full and endlessly beating just a little too hard. And I want to tell her I’ve never been so happy—and that I’m triple-happy now that she’s here with me again.

But…of course I don’t say any of that shit. Because who says that kind of shit?

“Night.” She mummers. “Or…morning, or whatever time it is…”

“Night,” I answer, listening for her to drift off. It doesn’t take her long.

Moving slowly, I click out the light and turn a little, examining what I can see of her face in the dark, then I frown at her mostly untouched water glass, worrying that she’s going to be dehydrated from traveling.

The London traffic sounds grow quiet as fewer and fewer cars pass along the road far below us. I let myself be lulled to relaxation by matching my breathing to hers. I already know that as she dreams, she rolls towards me and like clockwork, it’s already happening.

As she gets closer, and though I know it’s wrong, I move three of the highest pillows and place them out of the way, then I bump a couple off with an elbow, while I grab the rest and toss the remainder on the floor.

After thirty more minutes, she’s rolled close enough for me to make my move. Knowing from memory just how she’s going to fit in next to me, I scoot up slightly and pull her close so that the next time she rolls she’ll be facing me. And when she is, I pull her up and in, then settle my arms in around her as her head finds the same spot against my heart that it always finds. One arm goes up by her face, the other nestles around my waist like it belongs there.

I pull in the first deep breath I’ve taken since I left her, and turn a little more so I can plant a light kiss on top of her head then nestle my chin next to the softness of her curls just how I love.

Her scent envelops me and thankfully, I’m so exhausted that the desire for her fades into something controllable and comfortable. Just before I nod off, I feel one of her arms curl across my chest then her hand twines up to lie against the side of my neck.

I’m not sure if it’s a dream, my voice, or Robin’s voice that whispers: “I really missed this.”