I’m just kidding. Obviously, I said yes. A very vehement yes. Because otherwise, why would we be sitting at the table, waiting to enjoy paella, going into our ninth year as husband and wife. I have never for one moment regretted my decision to marry Sam Adler.

Although sometimes I wonder if he feels the same.

But there’s no trace of regret on Sam’s face as he watches our waitress place the large pan of piping hot rice and seafood down in front of us. He grins at me over the steam rising off our food.

“What do you think?” the waitress asks us.

“Looks great,” I say.

She places a white hand with red nails on my husband’s shoulder, “And what do you think, cariño?”

Our waitress has been flirting shamelessly with Sam since we arrived. This sort of thing always happens—I hardly even notice anymore. And he never notices. You’d think his wedding ring and the fact that he’s here with his wife would be deterrent enough, but apparently not.

“Yep, looks good,” he says, but his smile is directed only at me. It’s amusing to see women try to flirt with him while he completely ignores them. That will never get old.

The waitress gives up and leaves us to our paella. It’s really good. It’s costing us a fortune, but money has never been something I worry about. I’ve always felt a need to strike out on my own, even with my trust fund sitting in the bank, but between my salary and Sam’s, it would be hard to live in Manhattan without that nest egg.

“This is really good,” I say as I pop a piece of sausage in my mouth.

“I don’t know,” Sam says. “I think the paella I made last month was pretty good too.”

It wasn’t. It really wasn’t. Sam is not getting any better at cooking.

“Well, that wasn’t technically paella,” I say. “It was Spanish rice with pieces of sausage and shrimp in it.”

“Yeah, and what is this?” He digs some of the socarrat off the pan. “Same thing. Rice with sausage and shrimp.”

“You don’t have the crackling part at the bottom.”

“Sure I do.”

I grin at him. “Burning it at the bottom is not the same thing.”

“It was just a tiny bit burned.”

“It was black.”

“Hmm. I think it was brown.”

I roll my eyes. “I will say, I do like that you put fresh tomatoes in yours. Tomatoes are my all-time favorite vegetable.”

He gasps. “Abby! Tomatoes aren’t vegetables! They’re fruit.”

“No way.”

“Way,” he says firmly. “It’s got seeds on the inside. That makes it a fruit.” He winks at me. “It’s a savory fruit.”

“That doesn’t sound right.”

“It’s right. Trust me.”

No… is it?