“It’s done?” I ask.
He grins and nods. “Finally.”
I playfully roll my eyes. It’s looked fine to me for days, but he insists on getting every particular right.
“Here’s what I’ve been waiting for.” He points to the corner, where a rolling ladder waits with a big ribbon tied around a rung. “I’ve been working on it at home so you wouldn’t sneak down at night and see it first. Do you like it?”
My heart does a swoop. “ ‘I must learn to be content with being happier than I deserve,’ ” I tell him, running my hands greedily over the polished wood.
He laughs, his eyes doing that crinkly thing I love. “If you’re quoting Jane Austen, I know you’re truly happy.”
I hug him, and his arms close around me, and he smells like hard work and sawdust and whatever it is they put in men’s deodorant to make them smell like a mountain stream.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” he says. “Give it a try.”
All the books aren’t on the shelves yet, but he’s right—I have to try it. I climb on the ladder, and he sets down the champagne and takes hold and pushes me across the longest wall of bookshelves. The wood glows like amber in the sunshine as I zoom past it, and I throw back my head and laugh with feverish delight. Hunter walks along beside me and catches me before the ladder reaches the end of its tracks. I hop down and turn to face him.
“I can’t believe how quickly you did all this. It really is everything I ever dreamed of.”
His chest rumbles against my cheek as he chuckles. “That’s the magic.”
I draw back to look up into his eyes. He has that tired-but-satisfied look people get when they’re exhausted from doing what they love best. “I think it’s also you.”
His head tilts down toward mine. “And maybe a little bit you. From the moment I met you, I found myself wanting to impress you.”
Warm lips land on mine, salty and sweet, and I forget about bookshelves and ladders and sweat as I lose myself in kissing him. We’ve been taking it slow, but, well, this is a celebration. All his hard work has come to fruition. Which gives me an idea. “Have you seen the office lately? I finished decorating. And did the anti-dust spell.”
He knows exactly where I’m going with this. “Oh? So we should go check it out?”
I nod. “You should definitely take a look at my handiwork.”
Hunter takes my hand, lacing our fingers together. He walks backward, pulling me along. “So tomorrow, I’ll bring in therolling shelves from the antiques market and get them cleaned up and in place.”
“You really know how to get a girl hot….”
We turn the corner toward the office, now hidden from the big plate-glass window out front. “Might even install some new sockets so you don’t get electrocuted making boiled peanuts….”
“Keep going, tiger.”
The office is in sight now, the door open and the light on. It looks absolutely spotless, like a completely different room than when I saw it last. New paint, new carpet, new art on the walls, a sturdy new desk Hunter built from the excess wood, a desk that didn’t exist at the same time as Herbert Hoover and that has not been denuded by a ghost.
“If you’re a good girl, I might even build you some cabinets.”
“Those might be the best words a man can utter, besides, ‘I don’t need a list, I just know what needs to be done and will do it,’ ” I murmur.
“I don’t need a list—” he starts.
I put a finger against his lips, and his eyes crinkle up with amusement and…something else. Something more. Something I feel, too. He’s just so perfect—for me. This man who loves books, his dog, his family, his town, who can dream up things and then make them happen with his hands. This man who is self-assured and self-sufficient, who cleans up after himself and cooks and—
I should stop thinking about how perfect he is and see what he looks like without his shirt.
Some time later, after I have discovered his first tattoo—of Smaug, no less—and likely scandalized the ghost of my great-uncle, I sit on the desk, dazed and sweaty. “So I guess wechristened the office,” I say. “Shall we go to the apartment and get cleaned up? After we find our clothes, because that is a very large glass window.”
He stops, leaning against the door in a way that shows me all the muscles I’ve felt through his flannel but never actually seen before. “Oh, so the Terminator is good enough to be in that window for thirty years and I’m not?”
“I don’t give a shit about Arnold, but I want to keep you all for myself,” I tell him. “Actually, that’s not true. I like Arnold, especially when he’s hanging out with his miniature horse. But just as a friend.”
Once we’re both dressed, or at least Hunter has his jeans on, we head upstairs. He pauses at the top step and then laughs. “I keep waiting for a screaming cockatoo to fly at my face. I don’t want to be around an angry parrot when I’m half dressed.”
