She huffs out a laugh. “Fine. Six months.”
I type it into the doc.
“How we met is actually just how we met, so that’s easy,” Cora adds.
I nod. “Where did I propose?” I ask next, even though the word hits me in the sternum like a damn boot.
“In my cabin …?” she says uncertainly.
I shake my head. “No, we need a better place than that.”
She thinks, then shrugs. “Um … the ridge behind the south pasture? The one with the cottonwood tree?”
I look up at her, and for a second, I forget to breathe. “That’s where I would’ve done it,” I say before I can stop myself. It’s the most beautiful place on the property. I’d shown it to Cora within her first week on the ranch.
Her eyes flick to mine, and something in my chest tightens. I clear my throat and look back at the laptop, typing the answer down.
We work down the list I found online—wedding details, dates, when she moved in, etc.
“Random things about each other,” I read next. “Favorite things, mannerisms, habits, that kind of stuff.”
Cora smirks. “Like how you shower at night and use up all the hot water before me?”
This gets a smirk out of me. “I think yeah, actually.”
She chuckles. “Okay. What random things should you know about me?”
I shrug. “I don’t know, I think I already know most things about you.”
She raises an eyebrow.
“I’m just saying—I don’t have to make stuff up.”
She leans back, slow. “Oh really?” I don’t notice her telltale mischievous grin until it’s too late and she’s saying, “Then tell me my favorite position.”
My brain short-circuits so violently I almost drop my glass of wine.
“Cora.” I cough, clear my throat, and try not to look at her.
She’s giggling—that stupidly adorable giggle she does whenever the joke is at my expense. When I’m covered in rain from an unexpected downpour, when I spill food on myself in the mess hall, when I put my foot in my mouth. And I fucking love it every time. Fucking masochist. “What? Marriage intel,” she teases.
Her eyes are dancing, and all I can think about is how easy it would be to close the space between us and kiss that smugness right off her face.
Fuck, Theo, I chide myself.Stop thinking about that kind of shit.
“We’re not talking about that,” I say through gritted teeth.
“What if they ask?”
“I don’t think they’ll askthat.”
“I read online that they can ask some semi-sexual stuff,” she presses, her giggling subsiding.
“Semi-sexual?” I finally have the courage to look at her again.
“Yeah, like when we last had sex, if we want kids, if I’m on birth control …”
I swallow. “Are you on birth control?”
