She has no idea just how interested I am.
Me
I am interested, Marigold. And I’ll prove it.
Honey
How?
I smirk.
Me
At the gala. You’ll see. Meanwhile, can’t we just talk for a bit? What’s the harm?
Three dots appear.
Disappear.
Then appear again.
Honey
Fine. Here’s my number. Just text me sometime, okay? Maybe we can be friends.
Friends.
The word hits like a sucker punch to the ribs.
My beast snarls, claws scraping at the inside of my chest.
Friends? She’s ours. Claim her. Now.
“Not yet,” I mutter aloud. “We do this her way.”
I copy her number.
My fingers hover over the keyboard, then I start typing a text message to her cell number, which I promptly save.
Me
Friends it is. For now. But, Honey, I plan to be more.
I don’t hit send.
Not yet.
Instead, I sit back, watching the reflection of the moon as snow dances across the night sky. I turn and take in the expanse of my home.
This place is so big for just me.
But it’s perfect for a family. A family I can finally imagine having now that I’ve met Marigold.
Tomorrow, I’ll send it.
Tomorrow, I’ll start proving it.
Because one way or another—by the gala, by the new year, by whatever it takes—I’m going to make Marigold Santos mine.
