I’d admire the guy’s nerve, if I weren’t so annoyed right now.
Nose scrunched, I stare at the strange loser with a camera who is attempting to get an interview out of me at this private event.
Where do I see myself in five years?
Easy. Simple.
I want to be at home.
With my loving husband.
And our two future children.
I want to enjoy Friday nights with the guys whodidn’thave a major crash out in Publix when they learned I was getting married. I want to go to my book clubs. I want to bake and homemake and dote on my precious little family. I think I’d even like to try dressing up as Batwoman and going to a hospital or two.
…I do not want to answer an interview question on my wedding day.
Fortunately, Forrest sees my expression of abject disgust halfway across the venue and has the guy by the arm in a millisecond. “What seems to be the problem, Belly-belle?” he asks.
I say, “I don’t know this guy, and he’s asking me stupid questions.”
Forrest tuts. “Whatkindof stupid questions?”
“Where do I see myself in five years.”
“Ew.”
“I was just—” the man protests.
Forrest turns on his heel, dragging the man off with him. “No one cares. You want to know where she sees herself in five years? I’ll tell you. Nowhere near you.”
I giggle until arms close in around me from behind, and hot breath settles against my neck. “Mirabelle,” Damion murmurs, “I am going to die if we need to stay here a minute longer.”
Every inch of my body heats.
“I keep getting stuck in conversations and congratulations. Finn and Marci want you to join our Stardew farm. Leslie is wondering if you’d like an Amare sponsorship, since you’re so cute and she thinks it’d be great for her brand. Fawn keeps threatening to eat Levi and Rose’s kid.” He deflates, weight settling into me. “Please. I can’t take it anymore. The people are so…people. The wedding kiss was too short.”
It was a solid three minutes, up until the point I remembered my parents were watching and my lungs were burning for air and I…
Yeah. It wasn’t nearly long enough.
“I’m withering,” he mutters. “Whoever planned weddings and receptions was an idiot. Get married. Get home.” His arms flex at my midsection. “Indulge.”
That sounds wonderful.
I say, “But we haven’t even—”
He groans.
“Damion…”
He moans, pitiful. Because, I have learned over these past few months, that my big, strong, imposing man is so very soft. For me. Specifically. For others…not so much. He nearly punched Jeffry into the sushi section at Publix when he started throwing a fit upon learning of our impending nuptials.
Violently protective, preciously gentle, perfectly mine.
“I love you, Damion,” I whisper, lifting my hand to cup his face so I can kiss his cheek.
His lips mutter against my throat, “I love you more.”
