Marry her
My hands fly to my mouth. The rubber gloves fall forgotten on the counter.
I hear him clear his throat behind me.
When I spin around, he’s leaning against the doorframe, grinning at me.
“Are you proposing?” I gasp
He chuckles and pushes off the doorframe to prowl toward me.
“In the kitchen?” He stops in front of me, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to look at him. “No, sweetheart. Not yet.”
I suck in a breath, my heart pounding. “Notyet?”
“Just so you know...” He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, fingers lingering. They trail down slowly, tracing the line of my jaw, my throat, making me swallow hard. “I know you don’t like surprises. So, consider this fair warning. It’s on my list. Quite high up, actually.”
He winks, and I feel it between my thighs.
Oh my God.
“How high up? Like, top five? Top three? Higher than ‘buy milk’?”
“Higher than buy milk.” His thumb traces my bottom lip, and my lips part involuntarily. “Much, much higher.”
“Oh. Very good.” I swallow, pulse hammering. “Actually, I think the dishes can wait.”
“Excellent decision-making. Very CEO of you.”
He scoops me up, literally lifts me off my feet. I giggle, hands grabbing onto his shoulders for balance.
Oh my.
My Skye bucket list had “athletic sex with rugged Highland men.” I’m about to have very athletic sex with exactly one man. Singular. A Yorkshireman, technically, which doesn’t count geographically, although he is half Scottish. But I’m crossing it off because I make the rules, and also because I’m about to be thoroughly ruined.
Quality over quantity, as they say.
And Patrick McLaren is definitely quality.
THE END
