On our sixth night, we decided to have dinner on the terrace.
Reid had spent the afternoon cooking a mess of pasta and fresh clams insisting that he didn't need a five-star chef to impress his wife.
"It's structurally sound," I joked, twirling the pasta onto my fork.
"Though the garlic-to-noodle ratio is a bit aggressive."
"It's a bold design choice," Reid countered, leaning back in his chair, a glass of red wine in his hand.
The mood was perfect.
The stars were reflecting in the pool, and the only sound was the distant music from a boat in the harbor.
But the peace was shattered by a soft chime from the foyer.
A small, silver box had been placed on the entry table by the villa's discreet concierge.
"I didn't order anything," Reid muttered, standing up.
He returned with the box, his brow furrowed.
He set it on the table between us.
It was wrapped in heavy, cream-colored paper—the exact shade of my wedding dress.
