But that means it’s not going to beourplace any longer —not going to be the place where we started.
Which is fine, totally fine, because we’ve just finished building our home.Ourhome. And it’s amazing, beautiful,ours. But it’s not this place, not where we got our start, not the beginning of us.
But…it can be the beginning of something else.
I slip my hand into my pocket, touch the edge of the velvet-covered box I’ve been carrying around all day, and hesitate.
Is this the right time?
Does she deserve something bigger and better and more Instagram worthy?
Maybe I should do this at our new place, celebrate the beginning of a new chapter ofusthere instead of the ending of a previous one.
Maybe I should sweep her away to a private beach, get down on one knee at sunset, pledge my heart to her forever.
Hell, maybe I should?—
“The answer is yes, handsome.”
My fingers spasm on the box. “What?”
“Well,” she says, “scratch that…”
My heart spasms, words stoppering up in the back of my throat. But before I can force them out, rasp out something that resembles a proposal—or maybe a plea for her to take pity on me and agree to be my wife—she keeps talking.
“My answerwillbe yes”—she shifts, nudging me up and then onto my back before clambering on top of me—“if, and onlyif, you”—she drags her hand down my front, fingers drifting toward my suddenly hardening cock—“tell me why you call me cookie.”
Lips twitching, I settle my hands onto her hips. “I told you already.”
“About your dog named Cookie and our matching fur, er, hair?”
“Exactly.”
A roll of those pretty eyes. “Or maybe you’re talking about the time you told me it was because I had a chip on my shoulder, much like a chocolate chip cookie.”
I snort, slip my fingers into the waistband of her pants.
“I believe I said much like Molly’s peanut butter chocolate chip cookies,” I correct, stroking lightly over her silky flesh.
A sigh. A droll look. “That’s not any better.”
“It’ssignificantlybetter. Molly’s cookies are your favorite.”
“Jace,” she warns.
And I can’t resist sitting up and pressing my lips to hers for a short, blazing kiss.
“And…” she puffs out, “it’s not because your favorite late-night sugary cereal is Cookie Crisps either.” A beat. “So don’t even try it.”
I grin. “Okay, gorgeous. I won’t.”
“Okay,cookie,” she says sternly.
“You really want to know?” I ask softly, touching her cheek.
“The hundred times I’ve asked over the last year haven’t made it clear that I want to know?”
I chuckle. “Well, you’re persistent.”
