“With you?” he asked. “Always.”
Then he kissed me to eleven.
Epilogue
It was a Sunday morning,and Ryder was not in bed. There was, however, a lot of noise coming from downstairs in the kitchen.
Alotof noise.
The oven door thumped open and closed, cast iron clattered, metal on metal scraped and whisked, then the downpour sizzle of eggs smacking a hot griddle.
I smelled pancakes, bacon, maple, and blueberry. I smelled coffee.
He was really outdoing himself down there.
But it wasn’t just cooking sounds that had woken me. Music was playing.
Loud.
Ryder was singing.
Louder.
It was a Beach Boys song, and he was really giving the “good vibrations” part of it all his lungs. He had a good voice, but I could tell he was distracted, because his voice faded now and then, and he started getting the words wrong.
I was so going to tease him about that.
I thought about going down there, but the bed was warm, and it looked like October had finally decided to get on with the rainy season, sending little claw-clicks of rain against the windows.
I was cozy. Content.
Cupboards opened and closed, dishes rattled, and the snap of burners turning off filled the air.
Another song came on, quieter and softer—“Work Song,” Hoizer, singing about the woman of his dreams.
I thought he’d call me down. Instead, I heard his bare feet on the stairs, the clink of dishes shifting as he made his way to our bedroom.
I rolled over so I could watch him walk into the room.
He pushed the door with his elbow, both his hands supporting the tray he was carrying, a carafe of coffee hooked on his fingers.
“Morning,” he said.
“Morning,” I said. I couldn’t stop smiling. He wore a pair of ratty athletic shorts and a T-shirt with da Vinci’s illustration of an archer shooting an arrow through a shield.
“Breakfast?” He lifted the tray a little.
“Did you make pancakes?”
“Nope. For my new fiancé, it’s waffles all the way.”
“Aw.” I sat and flipped the covers back, making room for him beside me. “What happens when we get married?”
“Then it’s Belgian waffles.”
I laughed and helped hold the tray, then set the coffee on the night stand while he settled into the bed next to me, mattress dipping under his weight.
“This is amazing,” I said, looking over the spread. He’d made waffles, scrambled eggs with basil and feta, sliced cherry tomatoes, sliced oranges, bacon, and a little pot of blueberry compote. Along with that was maple syrup, butter, and enough coffee to keep me happy for hours.
