Me: Should've put them in the closet like I told you.
Austin: I'm reconsidering this whole living together thing.
Me: No you're not.
Austin: …no I'm not. But you're buying me new ones.
Me: Deal. See you tonight, beautiful.
Moving in together three months ago was the easiest decision I’ve ever made. Bree kept her place as a real estate investment, renting it out through an agency. Her clothes are in my closet, her shampoo is in my shower, and her laugh echoes through rooms that used to be too quiet.
Ladybug’s grown into a fifteen-pound bundle of chaos whose favorite pastime is being a lapdog. She’s also convinced that anything left on the floor is a toy, which Bree still hasn’t quite accepted.
“Dec.” Gunnar appears at my elbow, tablet in hand. “Got the numbers from last quarter.”
I scan the report, satisfaction settling in my chest. We’re up fifteen percent. Ford’s sales strategies are paying off, evenif his social media account—now at 1.2 million followers—still makes my eye twitch occasionally. At least he’s been careful. No identifying landmarks, no faces, nothing that ties back to Wilder Industries.
“Good work.” I clap my brother’s shoulder. “Tell Ford I said so, too.”
Gunnar’s mouth quirks. “He’ll be insufferable about it.”
“Let him. He earned it.”
My brother heads back to his station, and I check my watch. Three more hours until I can head home to Bree. Three hours until I can pull her into my arms and kiss her the way I’ve been wanting to all day.
My phone buzzes again.
Uncle Luke: Family dinner Sunday. Your brothers are bringing dates. You bringing Bree?
Me: When don’t I bring Bree?
Uncle Luke: Good point. Tell her I’m claiming Ladybug for the afternoon.
Me: She’ll negotiate visitation terms.
Uncle Luke: That woman drives a hard bargain. I like her.
Me: Me too.
More than like. I’m head over heels, completely gone for Bree Winthrop. The woman who counts her steps, who graduated from Vanderbilt, who doesn’t actually have an Emily Dickinsontattoo but should. The woman who panicked and claimed a fake boyfriend, then stole my dog, then stole my heart.
The woman I’m going to marry.
The ring’s been burning a hole in my truck’s glove compartment for two weeks now. I picked it up from the jeweler in Austin. It’s a vintage Art déco piece with a center stone that reminds me of her eyes, warm and golden-brown. Not too flashy, but quality. Like Bree herself.
I just need to figure out the right moment.
My phone rings. Nash.
“What’s up?”
“Poker night still on at your place?” My buddy sounds distracted, probably in the studio.
“Yeah. Seven o’clock. Rebecca okay with you leaving?”
“She’s the one who suggested it. Says I’ve been hovering.” He chuckles. “Apparently, I need to give her some space before the baby comes.”
“Smart woman.”
