My phone buzzes against the counter.
Brooks: Missing you already.
Elorie: You just left.
Brooks: Still missing you.
Brooks: Thinking about tonight. About that dress. About getting you alone.
My pussy tightens in anticipation. He does this; he builds anticipation until I'm wound tight and aching. Until closing time feels like an eternity away.
Elorie: You're terrible.
Brooks: You love it.
He's right. I do.
The afternoon passes in a blur of customers and inventory and catching myself staring at the clock. By five-thirty, I've changed in the bookstore bathroom, the dress clinging to curves Brooks maps with reverent hands every chance he gets. I let my curls down, add lip gloss, take a breath.
His truck pulls up at exactly six, and my heart does that stupid flutter it's been doing since the first time I saw him. Broad shoulders. Dark jeans that hug his thighs. That scar along his jaw I trace with my fingers when we're tangled together in the dark. He climbs out and crosses to the door, and the way he looks at me, like I'm the answer to every question he's been asking his whole life, steals my breath.
"Hi," I manage.
"Hi." His hand rests on the curve of my waist. "You wore it."
"You requested it."
His voice drops to that rough register that makes my pussy tighten. "Get in the truck. We're going home."
The drive stretches through familiar winding mountain roads. His hand stays on my thigh the whole way, warm and possessive, sliding higher with each mile until my breathing goes shallow. Rain starts halfway there, a soft patter against the windshield that should remind me of storms I've run from. Instead, it takes me back to the bookstore, watching him walk through the door while thunder shook the walls. He saved me then. Saves me still. Every single day, he chooses to stay.
"Three weeks is too long," he says quietly.
"For what?"
"To make you my wife." His fingers tighten on my thigh. "To stand up there and tell everyone what they already know; that you're mine and I'm yours and nothing's ever changing that."
Tears prick my eyes. "Brooks."
"But I'll wait because you want the mountain ceremony and the spring flowers and our people watching. And what you want, I'll give you."
"My dream is you," I whisper.
"I know that too." He lifts my hand to his mouth, kissing my knuckles. "That's why I'm never letting go."
When we pull up to our cabin, the one we've been building together, there's another truck in the driveway. Virginia plates—Grant's truck. My heart leaps.
"They're here!"
I'm out before Brooks cuts the engine, running toward the porch where Grant and Emma stand grinning. Emma pulls me into a bear hug.
Behind us, Grant claps Brooks on the shoulder. "Emma's been waiting for this since we left Granitehart Ridge."
"I love that so much," Brooks says simply, and the certainty in his voice makes my throat tight.
Inside, the cabin smells like pine and the fire Brooks started this morning. Emma spreads wedding plans across our kitchen table while Grant and Brooks handle dinner. Over Grant’s famous lasagna, we fall into an easy rhythm; goat stories that make us groan, wedding plans that make my eyes light up, the warmth of chosen family filling every corner.
"Two more escapes last week," Grant says, shaking his head. "One involved the fire department." His expression softens. "I'm proud of you. For fighting. For choosing her every day."
