“I bet your parents are excited for the wedding.”
He rolls his eyes. “You have no idea. I think part of it is because they’re itching for another grandbaby, too. Gets them off my back for a little bit though.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oldest child problems. Before Matty, they were eager for me to settle down and give them grandkids. Then they were so smitten with him that I was off the hook. Didn’t take long, though, before they were begging me to give Matty a cousin to play with.”
“Does that bother you?” I ask. “Do you want to have kids?”
“It doesn’t bother me at all, really. It’s all in good nature,” he says, rubbing slow circles on my thigh. “I’d love to have kids one day. Two, maybe three. You?”
I bite my lip.
Just the idea of Rhett with kids of his own—kneeling to tie their skates, lifting a sleepy toddler onto his hip, teachingsomeone how to hold a hammer properly—hits me harder than I expect. It’s a future I haven’t let myself picture in a long time.
I glance at him, really look this time. The steadiness written all over his face. The ease. The certainty.
“You sure you don’t want a whole hockey team of kids?” I tease, needing to break the seriousness curling in my chest.
He laughs, deep and easy. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
But his hand stays on my thigh.
“And for the record,” he adds, eyes flicking to mine before returning to the road, “I’d rather do it right than do it fast.”
That measured, thoughtful answer does more to undo me than any smooth line ever could.
The lights of Portsmouth appear ahead, the restaurant just a few turns away, and suddenly this doesn’t feel likejust a dateanymore.
It feels like the beginning of something I’m going to have to be brave enough not to run from.
Ristorante Massimo comes into view just as Rhett slows the truck.
The valet stand is already lit, a soft glow spilling onto the street. He pulls up and cuts the engine, and hands his keys over.
Rhett rounds the truck and opens my door before I can reach for the handle.
“Thank you,” I say, taking his hand as I step down.
“Anytime,” he replies, his thumb brushing over my knuckles.
Inside, warmth greets us immediately—brick and stone walls glowing under low light, candles flickering, fresh flowers on linen-covered tables. The place hums with quiet conversation and romantic intimacy.
The hostess leads us through the grotto-like dining room, Rhett’s hand resting at the small of my back.
I lean toward him as we walk. “You’re spoiling me.”
He glances down at me, a small smile playing at his mouth. “I’m setting a standard.”
Butterflies flutter in my stomach. He really is. And he knows it.
By the time we reach our table, I already feel a little undone.
“This place is beautiful,” I whisper as we sit.
He smiles, clearly pleased. “I was hoping you’d like it.”
The server arrives. He’s confident, knowledgeable, exactly the kind of service you expect in a place like this. Rhett listens carefully as he explains specials then asks questions about the wine and nods thoughtfully before ordering.
